


Battle Scars

by publius_ham



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Gayness, Hogwarts, I said it, M/M, Multi, Oops, basically everyone is bashing, eight year fic, except dumbledore, heh, i don't like dumbledore, i guess, i wish everyone in hp was gay, malfoy being a prick, potter being an oblivious prat as usual, pro slytherin, though maybe lucius could tune it down, uh anyway, why isn't everyone gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publius_ham/pseuds/publius_ham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spiders, rats, wrongly-boiled Veritaserum, a couple of dangerous bets and drunk parties – all with all, it was bound to be a hectic eight year at Hogwarts for the golden trio. Trying to ignore the ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy, however, turned out to be more difficult than ever before. Especially when he seemed to be as obsessed with Harry as Harry was with him. DRARRY. SLASH. Rating may go up in future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Golden Boy's Potion

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the rights of the characters, sadly. The goddess J.K. Rowling does, as you all very well know.  
> This story has no plot whatsoever: it’s just a romance story between the two most sexually frustrated boys in fictional history: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Enjoy.

 “Malfoy’s up to something,” Harry said for the thousandth time that day, ignoring his two best friends rolling their eyes at him. “I’m sure of it.”

It was the summer before their eight year at Hogwarts – well, technically their seventh since they hadn’t had the time to be in school at all the former year – and the trio had claimed their old compartment. The war had ended, as had the trials for former Death Eaters and their children, and now they were on their way to finish their education. Harry had already had doubts whether it had been smart to do so – he’d been offered a job as an auror, which was kind of a big honor – but he didn’t want any special treatment for being the ‘savior’ anymore. Voldemort was gone, and now was the time to finally catch up on some normal school time without the constant fear.

But unfortunately, old habits die hard. And however hard Harry was trying to let all his past issues with people go, he couldn’t help his immediate angry reaction at the first sight of his arch-nemesis’ face. Draco Malfoy. Harry had helped in his trial, had vouched for him, but still… The boy hadn’t snarled at him that morning, hadn’t drawled an insult, and he’d barely glanced at Hermione and Ron. No comments. No, ‘ _What are you doing here without your beloved fangirls, Potter?_ ’

Nothing.

And that disturbed Harry to no end.

“Just, quit it, Harry,” Hermione said, looking up from a Rune book she was reading. Her eyes had been excited this morning – she had wanted to return to Hogwarts pretty badly – but now they seemed irritated and tired. “Shouldn’t you be happy that he’s leaving you alone? You complained to us for years about that. And now the splendid day’s finally here – and you think he’s up to something?”

“Well – yeah.” Harry brushed his hair out of his face. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was up with the blonde boy. His face had just looked so… Dead. “But the last time I’d seen him was in court – and he was all too happy to snarl at me before the hearing! So what changed?”

Hermione sighed deeply, and laid her book down. “Isn’t it obvious _why_ he’s changed towards you, Harry?”

“No.” Again he ruffled his hair. A nervous tick.

She leaned forward, her big eyes staring into his own, trying to catch some more emotion than irritation at Malfoy. Obviously satisfied, she leaned back, and said; “He isn’t the same boy he used to be before everything. Merlin, no one is. You saved his life a couple times, he tried to save yours, and you helped him during the hearing. Thanks to you he and his mum escaped Azkaban. Did you _really_ think that after _everything_ he’d just go back to the obnoxious prick he used to be? Of course not! He feels like he’s in your debt and I doubt he’s going to interact with you at all! Probably too conflicted about wanting to hate your guts while feeling the need to thank you at the same time.”

“Well,” Ron decided happily when Harry just stared at Hermione as if she’d lost her marbles, “I don’t know about you mate, but a year without Malfoy annoying the guts out of us sounds like a pretty good deal.”

Before Harry could find his voice again – because, surely, Malfoy couldn’t be feeling that torn about _him_ , could he? – the door slid open, revealing a few giggling teenage girls.

Ron’s feet, who’d been dangling up in the air lazily, dropped with a _thud._

“I _told_ you the rumors were true,” one girl whispered to the others, and they all giggled.

“We heard you were coming back to Hogwarts,” said the tallest girl cheekily when they’d calmed down, smirking at Harry. Her grey eyes probably should’ve looked sexy, but Harry just felt sick. “May we join you, Savior?”

Hermione choked on her laughter, and Harry made a mental note to kick her later. This kind of attention wasn’t uncommon anymore, after the Battle of Hogwarts, but it was still as unwelcome as a face full of dung. He hadn’t gotten better at waving them off, either, which entertained his two best friends to no end. “Er – well, sorry. I’m already sitting with my friends, and I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable…”

“I won’t be uncomfortable.” The girl said, her eyes positively twinkling.

Something was twitching in his gut. He wanted to say, _I wasn’t talking about_ you _,_ but that just seemed a tad too rude for the so-called savior to say.

When the girl just quirked a brow, Hermione sighed and said: “He’s too polite to decline. So, _no, thank you._ We’re fine with just us three, thanks.”

“I didn’t know that you spoke for Harry?” The girl’s smile was gone, and with it, her attractiveness. He was pretty sure she was a third year Ravenclaw, but in that moment she looked more like Pansy Parkinson. Which wasn’t a compliment.

“She doesn’t.” Harry said, and brushed his bangs from his face nervously – while trying to ignore the fact that it was a stupid move, since the girls were now able to swoon about his scar. “But she’s right, though.”

“Fine.” Disappointed she turned away, but not without saying with a sweet voice; “I’ll see you at Hogwarts… Harry Potter.”

She walked away without closing the door, her horde of girls following her immediately.

The moment they were gone Harry kicked; and Hermione’s yell rang through the compartment. “What in the name of Merlin’s pants was that for!”

“For laughing.”

She chuckled, rubbing her knee absently. “Yeah, okay. I may have deserved that.”

“Three things,” Ron said, holding up his fingers in the air with a stubborn expression on his face. “One, don’t kick my girlfriend. Two, why didn’t you ask them in – aren’t you looking for a new _lover?_ And three: don’t kick my girlfriend.”

“What was number one again?” Harry asked innocently, and smirked when Ron punched – and missed. “Calm down, Ron! I was just kidding.”

Ron’s eyebrows quirked upward, and he threw his left arm around Hermione, leaving her all flustered and blushing. They’d been dating for three months now, and they were still in the giggling ‘ _did he/she just touch my hand on purpose_?’ faze. Harry doubted they’d ever grow out of it. “Well, don’t forget it.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Uptight much.”

They both kicked him at the same time, which made them all laugh.

_xxx_

 

Hogwarts had changed.

It wasn’t something you could see from the outside.

It was just a feeling – a feeling that something in the air had changed, making it more dark and empty and cold at the same time. As if someone had taken the heart out of it all.

But when Harry stepped into the Great Hall, his feeling of discomfort and unfamiliarity was confirmed by just looking at the enchanted ceiling.

Big black clouds were colliding and rubbing together, sizzling with harmless lightning.

The storm that usually threatened to take place above the heads of everyone in the Great Hall was always prominent, but never on the first day, and it didn’t help to calm Harry’s already upset stomach down. He knew that great parts of the castle had been fixed, that evidence of a battle would be hard to find, but it made him feel queasy enough as it was to stare at the four long tables, suddenly seeing all the faces that had lain there three months ago.

“Come on,” Hermione urged, taking Harry with her to the Gryffindor table.

Faces were turning, whispers grew louder, but Harry tried to ignore it all. He was just trying to breathe calmly.

The last day he’d been here… The last time he’d cast a spell in this exact Hall… was the time Voldemort had fallen, the time his final body had died – at _his_ hand. He shuddered, and resolutely turned his head away from the spot it all had happened. “So,” He stated, ignoring the shakiness of his voice, “Hogwarts.”

Ron looked as queasy as he felt. His eyes hadn’t left one particular spot, somewhere in the back of the Hall.

“Well.” Hermione tried to look positive to cheer both the guys up. “We all know it’s been a long time, and it’s definitely going to be difficult adjusting, but I’m sure glad I’m back. I missed this place.”

Harry’s gaze turned to the spot Ron was staring at, suddenly seeing the red-headed family standing there again, mourning, crying… “It’s too late to leave, isn’t it?”

His bushy-haired friend punched him softly on his arm, but she didn’t say anything. None of them did. They just all watched the spot where Fred’s body had lain, alongside Lupin’s, and Tonk’s, and –

“See something you like, _Potter_?” Echoed a voice across the hall, and Harry looked up.

The person who was sitting in that particular _sad_ spot was none other than Draco Malfoy himself. He was smirking, his usual glint of satisfactory smugness back in his eyes. Harry would be the last person to admit that Draco looked better with that expression – especially with his face all grown-up and prominent looking - but he couldn’t help but feel a bit reassured. _There_ was the annoying git he used to know.

“In your dreams, Malfoy!” He countered back, smirking.

He supposed Malfoy did grow into his body nicely; not that he was looking or anything. The boy just infuriated him to no end, and bickering about useless things was better than staring at places his friends had died for him. To be honest, it was better to focus on Malfoy’s annoying voice than anything else right now.

Malfoy didn’t retort something back, however. He surprised Harry, and probably a whole lot of people too, by winking at the raven-haired boy before turning his attention to the headmistress.

“Did –“ Harry blinked a couple times too often, trying to find his voice. Ron and Hermione were staring with open mouths as well. “Did he just _wink_ at me? Did Malfoy… _wink?”_

“Er… I’m sure it’s just some trick of the light, mate. I mean, Malfoy? Wink at _you_?”

Hermione closed her mouth, and shook her head solemnly. “I don’t think it was a trick, Ron, otherwise we all wouldn’t have seen the same thing.”

“Why do I date someone smarter than me again?”

Harry kicked them both under the table, which send the couple in a laughing fit.

He, however, didn’t even smile.

Something was up with Malfoy: he’d been right. (Of course he had been.) Sure, at first Draco had been distant and odd, and now he’d been almost… teasing? He hadn’t called him names, he’d just asked Harry if he’d liked what he had seen…

And, Harry asked himself, not quite sure if he wanted the answer, _had he?_

_xxx_

_“There, do you see him?”_

_“Yes – next to the red head!”_

_“With the glasses?”_

_“And don’t forget the scar!”_

Everywhere Harry went, whispers followed. He was kind of used to it. Back in his first year something similar had happened – he’d been a living legend, some story parents told their children about – second year whispers of his so-called Dark heritage had clouded his everyday life at school, third year it was the story of a mass-murderer following him… you get the point. There was never a year that he wasn’t constantly plagued by nervous first years scattering away as soon as he got within their hearing range, never a year of being able to walk through a corridor without at least one head turning to look at him passing by.

But this year it seemed to be increased tenfold.

Maybe the Prophet’s view on the Battle of Hogwarts hadn’t helped. Maybe the fact that so many people had been present on the final battle to gossip about it later hadn’t helped, either.

All Harry knew was that he was getting sick of the people gazing up at him as if he was some kind of god. “Beat it,” he finally yelled at a second year Ravenclaw who’d been blocking his path as a rabbit stuck in front of a moving car. She couldn’t have run away faster if her life had depended on it.

“What would the Prophet make of this?” Harry turned around, but he already knew whose voice it belonged to. “Let me guess; ‘ _Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world and the boy who lived, yelling at defenseless fangirl’._ How’s that for tomorrow’s paper?”

“Wouldn’t work. Tad too long for the front page.” Harry said sarcastically, and strutted away.

Malfoy followed, their footsteps echoing across the hallway. “Should’ve known you’d never go for anything less than that, Potter.”

 “Well, you _have_ known me for eight years now. Surely you shouldn’t have felt the need to ask?”

Malfoy snorted. “When did you get so cocky?”

“When did you get so civil?”

The Slytherin stopped walking, an incredulous expression on his face. “Excuse me?” He spluttered, for the first time unconfident. “Me? _Civil_? Have you lost your mind?”

Harry stepped closer to him.

The other boy went rigid, freezing on the spot.

“No,” Harry said softly, gazing in the grey cold eyes of Malfoy. He hadn’t noticed in all those years, but the lashes of Malfoy were almost like silver as light as they were. “ _You_ have.”

“What’d you mean?” Malfoy stepped back, his face turning into a snarl. “Merlin, Potter,” he added nervously, “Ever heard of personal space?”

Harry ignored the last question, and stepped in closer. This time he was absolutely positive that Malfoy had changed. “You still haven’t jinxed me,” Harry said slowly, looking at Malfoy’s still empty hands, “you haven’t cursed me, nor my family. You haven’t slurred, you haven’t called Hermione any names and you haven’t thrown any punches.”

Some of the color seemed to slip back onto Malfoy’s face. “If you’d rather I did, just say the word.”

Harry ignored that, too. “You were quiet this morning and you’re friendly – in Malfoy terms – right now. So, yes, Malfoy: I asked ‘ _when did you get so civil’_. I didn’t lose my marbles.”

“Are you saying I did?”

Harry just quirked a brow.

The other boy breathed in sharply. “Just – I just…” Malfoy’s face fell back in its usual cold and indifferent mask, and Harry cringed inwardly. It was as if Malfoy had wanted to open up seconds ago – but something had changed his mind, and the boy said, rushing out the words as he stumbled away; “Just _forget it_ , Potter. See you at Potions.”

With that he rushed out, not even looking over his shoulder once to see the Gryffindor staring at him in disbelief.

 

_xxx_

“Today we’re learning about a little Potion called _Veritaserum.”_ Horace Slughorn said, waggling in front of the class with his hands clasped together. The class was small, with Harry and Ron sitting in the back as the only Gryffindors, along with three Slytherins (including Malfoy, Harry’d noticed), two Hufflepuffs and four Ravenclaws. They’d combined a lot of classes with different houses since their year had become pretty small. Not even a quarter of the people he used to go to school with was attending now, either because of haunting memories, or because they were lost in the war.

“Really?” Draco drawled, sighing deeply. “That’s a fourth year potion!”

“Then maybe _you_ could inform us of the effects of _Veritaserum_ , mister Malfoy,” Professor Slughorn said cheerily, “as it is – in your words – common knowledge for you all?”

Slightly insulted the Slytherin straightened his back, and said in a monotone voice that could’ve echoed Hermione’s: “The potion effectively forces the drinker to answer any questions put to them truthfully, though there are some methods of resistance. But,” he added, his voice turning more normal, “the use of _Veritaserum_ is controlled by the ministry – we can’t use it.”

“Very good, very good!” He clapped his hands, his eyes twinkling with positive delight. “Yes, you’re very right. You are not permitted to either take it with you or use it. You are, however, expected to be able to make the potion for your upcoming N.E.W.T.’s!”

Harry groaned, and put his head on his arms. Being reminded of his exams this early on a Monday morning wasn’t even a little bit welcome to his already grogginess.

“But, sir,” Lisa Turpin, one of the Ravenclaw girls said, “if we can’t use the potion, how will we know we brewed it correctly?”

“And another good question!”

Harry quirked his head up, and groaned for the second time. Slughorn was looking as if he’d just taken some _Felix Felixis._ He’d probably expected the class to just stare and do their work – probably expected them to have lost their spirit. Hermione had warned them for it, seeing as a lot of teachers had fought as well three months ago. She said that some of them would probably either burst into tears when seeing Harry’s face, or close themselves up and act stiff. Horace Slughorn, however, acted as if he had just had the most normal summer ever.

“We can’t use it,” he said, “but we can, however, test it in this classroom. That is permitted by the ministry – and if everyone takes one drop, the effect shall only last one minute. You can’t leave the classroom in that minute, and you don’t have to take it without your consent – though you will get less points.” 

Tracey Davis, a Slytherin girl sitting in front, put up her hand.

“Yes, miss Davis?”

“What if you can resist the potion, Professor? Some people can naturally withstand its power, and that wouldn’t be fair –“

“This class just keeps impressing me.” Professor chuckled, and winked at the girl. (Who looked positively disgusted, and Harry couldn’t blame her.) “It is indeed true that there are people who are able to withstand certain forms of magic – the main example is sitting in this exact class room –“

All eyes turned around to look at Harry, and a blush crept up his cheeks. There went his hope of going through _one_ day without being reminded of his weirdness.

“But you must know,” Professor Slughorn continued after a long and heavy pause, “that withstanding _Veritaserum_ isn’t the same as with Unforgivable Curses. For the potion you either have to have had an antidote, or know Occlumency,” Harry and Ron shared a knowing look, “and I doubt any of you even know what that is! So don’t worry, Miss Davis, it’ll be quite all right.”

He waved his hand, and behind him on the board appeared the steps of making it.

It wasn’t an easy potion, Harry realized when reading them. It had to be brewed close to a full moon – hence was why, Professor Slughorn told them, they had to brew it this week, or they had to wait another month – and it was a difficult and chaotic process. Not as difficult as Polyjuice Potion, sure, but they didn’t have Hermione on their side this time. The copy of ‘ _The Half-Blood Prince’_ was also missing, since Harry had thrown it out after the end of year six, and Harry’s usual luck in Professor Slughorn’s class was absent.

That didn’t go unnoticed by the Professor himself, when he walked by and stared at the still colorful potion brewing in Harry’s pot. Yet he didn’t say anything about it – he just clapped on Harry’s shoulder with a knowing smile. No, wait, it was even worse, Harry thought with a sickening feeling, it was a _pitying_ smile.

The making of the potion, however, turned out to be pretty easy. You just had to stir at the times the steps told you to stir, to add daises draught when you were supposed to, and be careful with the fire.

Everything was going splendidly, until Ron’s potion exploded, with its content flying everywhere – and the students nearest to him were instantly soaked. Harry, who had been sitting right next to it, even gulped down half of it with the liquid dripping from his face and right through his clothes.

“Really, Ron?” Harry muttered through his teeth, gargling up the liquid.

“Oh, no!” Professor Slughorn came running, his wand in the air. “Whose potion exploded?”

“Mine, sir,” Ron said gruffly, rubbing in his eyes. “I didn’t turn down the fire.”

“Well, well, it’s all fine,” he waved his hand, and with a quick; _‘tergeo’_ the students were dry. “No harm done.”

The tasteless liquid was still inside Harry’s throat, however, and it didn’t really improve Harry’s mood to know that it was an unfinished truth potion – what could the effects be? “Uh, Professor?”

“Yes, my dear boy?”

“I got some of Ron’s potion in my mouth… I hope that isn’t anything bad?”

“Yes, uh, well,” Professor Slughorn said briskly, looking worried, “the potion wasn’t nearly ready – after today, I would have you brew it for an entire lunar episode - so in theory it shouldn’t  have any lasting effects. But this is something only time can tell, I’m afraid.”

_No. Just – no._ “Professor, surely I can just take some antidote? To stop any effects happening at all?”

“I’m afraid that can’t be done, Harry,” this time the professor grabbed his shoulders, hard, as if to reassure him and keep him on his seat on the same time. He had taught his mother as well, Lily Potter, and he probably thought Harry’s temper would be bigger than the explosion had been. “The antidote was created to stop the effects from a fully functional Veritaserum potion, not this one.”

A low laugh echoed through the dungeon, flaring Harry’s already wobbly mood. “How many drops did you swallow exactly, Potter?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Malfoy?” he bit back.

“Actually, yes. Hence why I asked.”

“Oh, just, bugger off –“

“Boys, boys, now is hardly the time!” Professor Slughorn strutted to his desk, a serious expression on his face. “Dear Harry, yes, you swallowed some Veritaserum, but that won’t have any lasting effects.” _I hope._ His unfinished sentence rang through the classroom. “And you, mister Malfoy,” he turned to Malfoy with a snarl, “you are not to take advantage if, by some unlucky shot, it _does_ take hold.”

Malfoy put up his hands, an innocent smile on his face. “Me? Taking advantage of Potter? Why, don’t be preposterous. That simply isn’t in my nature.”

Ron snorted so loud he started coughing.


	2. Starting over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Stella for being the sweetest beta!  
> Enjoy.

The first week passed by without too much fuss.

Slowly everyone around Hogwarts got used to Harry Potter roaming the halls – and stayed clear whenever his frown of irritation would grow too prominent than usual. It had just taken a few days for everyone to understand that his patience with people had disappeared completely after the Battle of Hogwarts – and they didn’t try their luck in case they pissed off the Golden Boy.

One teenager, however, didn’t have trouble doing so.

And it infuriated Harry to no end.

“Can’t he just stick it up and disappear like most Slytherins do whenever I’m in the room?” Harry finally snarled to Ron in the Gryffindor common room on their free Sunday evening. The golden trio was laying lazily in front of the fire. Hermione was rereading her Potion essay on the effects of _Veritaserum_ and Ron was dangling his feet on the edge of the seat, his head near Hermione’s face so he’d be able to steal glances of her concentrated face every now and then. Harry, however, was sitting rigid in his seat, staring at the flames as if they’d personally offended him. “I mean, seriously,” he continued when his friends hadn’t said anything, “He practically shoved me down the stairs today, and _apologized!_ What’s up with that?”

Ron took a deep breath, and he closed his eyes, obviously too contend and tired for this conversation. “Mate, drop it. You’re reading too much into this.”

“I’m not.” Harry said stubbornly, clutching his chest with his arms. His friends hadn’t believed him when he’d said Malfoy had been up to something during their sixth year – and that had resulted in something quite catastrophic. “I’m _not_.” He repeated, but this time a bit softer and more unsure.

“Sure you are.” Hermione hummed, not even trying to look interested.

Harry didn’t care. “Who tries to humiliate me in front of everyone… and then apologizes for it?”

“Malfoy?”

Harry flinched.

Ginny joined the group, sitting down in front of him with her back to the fire, which made her hair look like it was surrounded with flames. She looked well-rested and calm, as if sitting on the floor in front of Harry wasn’t a weird or awkward thing to do at all.

And Harry also hated the fact that she looked lovely enough to make his mind drift off his obsession – not that he’d admit that’swhat it was – with Draco Malfoy. She’d cut her hair pixie-short, making her look even older and more beautiful. Her warm brown eyes were as welcome as ever, and her smile was nothing but sweet. The words that came out of her mouth, however, weren’t very lady-like, nor pretty. “You’ve got to quit pining about him, Harry. If we’d still be dating, I’d be jealous.” She ignored Harry’s deep sigh. “But, seeing as we’re not, I think I have the right to tell you to either let it go, or snog him in the nearest broom cupboard.” When Harry just stared at her with an open mouth, she added, with a smirk strangely resembling those of George, “In either cases you’d leave us alone, and be relieved of some sexual frustration at the same time.”

“Nobody asked you,” he muttered, but Ron shoved him with his foot, so he tried to be nice to the girl who’d broken his heart. “I’m not in love with Malfoy,” he said after a while, but it sounded more whiny than convincing.

Ginny just raised a brow before giggling. “Whatever you say, Golden Boy.”

Harry winced, and rubbed his hands over his face. Seeing Ginny just added to his already off-the-rockets frustration. “Don’t call me _Golden Boy_.”

“What?” She smiled wider. “Would you prefer ‘Savior’?”

Something lurched painfully in his stomach. “I don’t – god. I’m leaving.”

“Where to? Bed?” Ginny’s smile disappeared. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

There was a ringing, oozing sound in his ears now, making it almost too difficult to think clearly. All he knew was that he wouldn’t, no, _couldn’t_ , stay here and make small talk with Ginny. “Somewhere - anywhere that isn’t here.” He stood up abruptly, and nodded to Ron and Hermione before rushing away quickly.

He ignored Hermione whispering to his ex-girlfriend; “ _Gin, you know he wasn’t ready_ –“ and pushed a second year out of the way to storm out of the common room. The Fat Lady called out a ‘ _Really?_!’ when he accidentally threw the door open too hard and pushed her portrait against the wall with a little more force than necessary, but he didn’t stay around to apologize.

He just stormed off, trying to ignore everything that had just happened.

Not that it was working, or anything.

Just seeing Ginny like this, so friendly and teasing, brought up all kinds of unpleasant memories that he didn’t want to think about. Images of people kissing, shouting, apologizing, crying – _oh, the crying_ – shot through his head, adding up with the already fuzziness. _Why couldn’t she just ignore me?_ He thought, rubbing his eyes angrily, _does she have to rub it in?_

His feet were walking automatically. He’d wandered Hogwarts in thought so often that getting lost was close to impossible, and he didn’t really care as to where he would end up. As long as it wasn’t the dungeons, nor the Room of Requirement – he really wasn’t in the mood for something like that.

After what felt like eternity he felt, for the first time, something like tiredness and gave up. He was close to the Owlery, and he figured that was as good a place as any to hide out for a while. It was certainly too cold for couples to make out, too dirty for people to study, and too loud for most people to think clearly. Harry, however, welcomed every bit of it.

He liked being around owls, for it distracted him of everything. Sitting up here in the owlery made him forget all about last year, made him forget about the horrendous summer and –

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

For a second Harry doubted if it was worth it to fling himself off the tower. Then he remember that he shouldn’t give the other boy the satisfaction that he had the power to get such a strong reaction out of him. “Walking. What are _you_ doing here, Malfoy?”

“Sitting.” Malfoy was staring down at him, his feet dangling beneath him. He was sitting on one of the high arches – how on earth had he gotten up there without slipping and falling down? – and he looked angry and scared at the same time that his hiding spot was found out. “It’s almost nine, Potter, shouldn’t you be tucked into bed by now?”

Harry scowled, and ignored him. He walked towards one of the biggest windows – though it wasn’t really a window, it was more of a big hole in the wall – and gazed across the Forbidden Forest stretching out in the distance. He could just make out a tiny light burning inside Hagrid’s cabin, but other than that it was pitch black out there.

Somewhere out there… somewhere between those dark trees… he’d died.

Maybe for the last time, if you believed Hermione’s theory. Which he didn’t, by the way, though that was more out of fear for his own fate than her reasoning, which happened to be quite believable.

“If you aren’t here to use an owl,” Malfoy said after a while, disrupting Harry’s disturbed thoughts with a soft voice, “what are you doing here?”

“I already told you, Malfoy.” Harry brushed his hair from his face, trying to keep calm. He wanted to hit something. (Which, actually, for the first time in days had nothing to do with the fair-haired boy.) “This tower isn’t exclusive to insensitive brats, you know.”

“Really?” Harry could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Could’ve fooled me. _You_ ’re here, after all.”

Harry groaned, resting his head on his arms, who’d been leaning on the edge of the window. It was an awkward position, and his back was starting to hurt already from the weird angle, but he stayed put. Even bickering with Malfoy wasn’t enough to distract him from Ginny, and he didn’t want the Slytherin to see his face right now, in case it showed more emotion than he cared to acknowledge he had. “Shuffpmoy.”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said, “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“ _Shut up, Malfoy_ ,” Harry repeated, this time lifting his head up a bit.

“So eloquent for a Gryffindor, who would’ve thought.”

“I’m really not in the mood.”

“What, someone didn’t applaud when you entered the room?”

It took all Harry’s willpower to _not_ grab his wand and hex Malfoy into oblivion. “Get lost.”

“Was it maybe your Weaslette, not bowing down at your feet? You can’t honestly expect even your girlfriend –“

“Don’t call her that.” This time, there was a definite tremor in Harry’s voice. He was clutching his wand tightly inside his robe, his hands shaking of anticipation to _just do it_.

“- to kiss the ground where you walk on, do you?” Malfoy went on mercilessly, not noticing Harry’s anger.

“Shut up!” He bellowed this time, turning around with his wand in the air. Every bit of frustration was pouring out of him, aimed at the blonde Slytherin smirking down at him. Harry could literally feel the air around him buzzing with magic, twirling around him and ready to pounce. “Shut up, Malfoy, or –“

“Or what? You’ll hurt me?” Malfoy sneered at him, his mouth contracted into an ugly smile. “You wouldn’t.”

“And why wouldn’t I?” Harry couldn’t stop shaking. Why couldn’t he stop shaking? “You used to make my life a living hell, Malfoy, so give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t hex you for it.”

The other boy raised a brow, almost bored, before slowly lifting his white T-shirt.

Harry froze, something screaming in his brain. “What are you –“

“You wanted to know why you shouldn’t,” Malfoy just said, and jumped down. More graceful than anyone could’ve been jumping down from a high ledge he landed, right on the ball of his feet, before turning into the rigid ice prince Harry grew to irritate. Malfoy wasn’t smiling, and even his eyes were cold. “You already took your revenge, Potter, no need to hex me again,” he said softly, pointing at his bare chest.

First Harry couldn’t move his gaze from Malfoy’s face. There was just something so powerful in his gaze… as if warning him that this wouldn’t be easy…

But after a while of listening to his fastened heart-beat, Harry looked down.

And gasped.

Malfoy’s pale skin was covered in long and deep gashes, creating an ugly pattern all across his chest. His normally lean and fit figure – thanks to Quidditch, Harry supposed – was tainted with red and white scars, scars that obviously had to hurt every time the other boy moved. Even now, just standing still, Harry could see the too quick and shallow breaths Malfoy was taking to stop himself from stretching the skin too much. (Or, maybe, the boy was nervous. But that couldn’t be the case, could it, not for the pretentious Draco Malfoy.)

Harry stepped closer, his heart hammering in his chest and his throat dry. “Is… Is that from…”

“Your curse?” Malfoy quickly pulled on his shirt again, his cheeks darkened. “Yes.”

“Why…” He’d always regretted hexing Malfoy like that, with Snape’s curse which he hadn’t known what would do to the boy… but actually _seeing_ the result was a thousand times worse. “Why hasn’t it healed yet?”

Malfoy shrugged carelessly, straightening his shirt.

Harry’s gaze locked eyes with Malfoy’s. He understood that the boy hadn’t just done this to make Harry feel bad, to answer his question – because really, they both knew it had been rhetorical – but to also let him know that he was human. That he was hurt by Harry, just as much as Harry was ever hurt by him. “I’m…” Harry tried to think about a possible way to apologize for the hurt he’d caused the boy, but he knew that no words would ever be enough. “I’m sorry,” he just said, lowering his wand and head at the same time.

“It’s fine.”

The words were so sincere that Harry looked up, and he was even more surprised to see Malfoy smiling at him.

“You saved my life a couple of times last summer,” Malfoy said as an explanation, “I guess that makes us even.”

“How can you not hate me?” Harry asked incredulously, “I scarred you for life –“

“Like I said.” Malfoy crossed his arms now, almost angrily stubborn to make him belief the apology was truly accepted. “I figured a few scars weigh up against an entire life. Surely even a dim-witted wizard like you could –“

“Don’t.” He was so, so tired. “Don’t joke about this. You saved my life first, remember? At your manor? You recognized me, Malfoy, but –“

Malfoy suddenly stepped back, his face slipping into a cold and pale mask. “Forget it, okay? It’s all right.”

Harry let it drop. It was obvious that something about that encounter triggered some unpleasant memories – and Harry was the first of all people to understand it. “Okay,” he said softly, rubbing his hands across his face. “Now what, then? We established that I can’t hex you or hurt you…”

“I can’t h… hex you either,” Malfoy said, almost struggling to get the word ‘hex’ out of his throat, “seeing as without you I’d be dead… or in Azkaban.”

Something told Harry that Malfoy had wanted to say ‘ _hate_ ’, just as much as he’d wanted to say that instead of ‘ _hex_ ’. “And you somehow can’t insult my friends, nor me, on heritage, family or income…”

“We’re stuck, it seems.”

“No,” Harry decided after a long and heavy silence, and he gazed up at the blonde boy seriously. He knew Malfoy’d had it difficult during the war, facing things teenage boys weren’t meant to see, nor do, all because his father had supported Voldemort. Malfoy didn’t know Harry knew what he’d done – since he’d seen it all in dreams – and Harry wasn’t likely to tell him. But still, he couldn’t _obliviate_ his knowledge, and he wouldn’t have tried to forget it even if he could.

“What do you mean, ‘ _no_ ’?” Malfoy said, raising a brow.

And without saying another word, Harry stuck out his hand.

For a second it seemed as if Malfoy had stopped breathing.

“We can start over,” Harry whispered, afraid that if he’d spoke too loudly the other boy would run away. Malfoy certainly looked shaken enough to bolt any second. “Let bygones be bygones.”  

Malfoy opened his mouth… and closed it again. Every bit of color had disappeared from his face, making him look as if he was shining in the moonlight.

“Your mother actually saved my life, did you know that?” Harry went on, even softer. “Voldemort had killed me that night, but I came back, and she had to check if I was truly dead… she told them I died, so she could find you and get you somewhere safe. She saved us _both_ with one word.”

Malfoy was shaking his head ever so slightly. “Potter… You don’t know…”

“I don’t know what?”

“You…” Malfoy’s whole façade of emotionless was slowly ripping at the edges, revealing spots of fear and panic in his eyes. “You’re the savior, Potter. You can’t just… _do_ this with me. _Especially_ with me.”

Harry leaned in closer, a determined expression on his face. “I can, and I will. Come on, Draco,” Malfoy’s eyes widened fully at the sound of his first name rather than his last, “don’t leave me hanging.”

“ _You’re impossible,”_ Malfoy hissed under his breath, but he took it. His hands were clammy and cold, but his grip was firm and he didn’t let go.

“I certainly do my best,” Harry countered back, smiling.

_-xxx-_

When Harry got back to his dorm that night his mind was slowly spinning out of control.

He had bid Malfoy goodnight, with his voice stammering awkwardly – though he was convinced that that was due to the fact that he’d just shaken the hand of his former nemesis, not because he hadn’t wanted to let go, _absolutely not_ – before rushing out and almost running back to the Gryffindor Tower.

He’d always known that Malfoy had had it difficult.

So why hadn’t he sought the boy out sooner?

Sure, they hadn’t exactly been best pals during his former years at Hogwarts, but still. He should’ve noticed, he should’ve asked him instead of just following him around and suspecting the worst.

“Harry!” Hermione’s worried voice pulled him out of his misery.

His friends were waiting for him by the fire – even though it was nearly eleven. “What are you guys doing up? ‘Mione, you never stay up before a Monday –“

She came running to him, for a minute as if she was going to hug him, before pulling her hand back and hitting him hard on his arm with full force.

Harry recoiled in pain, cursing out; “What in the name of _Merlin_ –“

“You can’t just run off and disappear for two hours, Harry!” Her eyes were wide-open, and her mouth was contracted in one of anger and relieve, which was kind of an odd combination. “We talked about it this summer, you can’t leave us without knowing where you are!”

She was right, of course. They’d talked about how utterly hurt they’d been when Harry had taken off into the Forbidden Forest to sacrifice himself without even saying goodbye. She, and Ron, had blamed themselves for not trying to stop him – though Harry knew that was ridiculous, nobody could’ve stopped him in that moment – and the only thing Harry could do to make it up to them was swear that he wouldn’t do that again, not at least before telling them. The fact that they were overly protective, even now when the war had ended, was just a side-effect. Harry knew they couldn’t help it. Harry didn’t find them noisy or irritating, and he didn’t complain. But right now, at the moment his emotions were already out of control, it was the cherry top to everything.

“c’mon, Hermione,” Harry groaned. “I can’t tell you where I am constantly, I’m not going to disappear –“

“Don’t.” She crossed her arms. “Where were you?”

“Owlery.”

Ron had gotten up from the couch, too, and he looked torn, wanting to back up Harry, and not wanting to cross his girlfriend on the same time. “For two hours?”

“Yes.” Harry’s cheeks reddened, and he hoped Hermione wouldn’t notice. “I ran into Malfoy.”

“What was Malfoy doing in the owlery? At a Sunday evening?”

“Never mind his reasons,” Ron intervened, a grin splitting his face in two. “Did you hex him? Throw him off the tower?”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded, “Don’t joke about –“

“No, I didn’t hex him.” Harry said, quickly interrupting before they’d started bickering. “I actually made up with him.”

“Why on earth –“

“Just because.” He ruffled his hair, took a good look at his baffled best friends, and said in a soft voice; “Sorry. I’m just really tired, really confused, and this whole evening has been nothing but a big mess.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, and when she put her hand on his arm it was a gesture of comfort rather than scolding. “Of course, Harry, it’s fine. We were just worried…”

“It’s fine.” He sighed. “I’m off to bed. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Ron said softly when Harry sped off to his dormitory. “Sleep tight, mate.”

_-xxx-_

Draco Malfoy was a mess.

Not that he would admit that to any of his Slytherin roommates, nor even to himself, but he was a chaotic emotional mess and it was all the fault of that damned Harry Potter.

That raven-haired Golden Boy had always managed to get under Draco’s skin like no one else. From the day he had refused to take Draco’s hand on the 1st of September in 1991 it all began. The years of infuriation with the boy, making him want to tear out his own hair in frustration. His skin just itched whenever Harry Potter came nearer, his heart bursting with… _annoyance_ … whenever the savior of the wizarding world would curse, hiss, or stare at him again. His friends had always called him ‘ _obsessed_ ’, Pansy had always slapped him whenever the name ‘ _Potter_ ’ would come up, and this year was no different.

Although…. A little different, since Pansy wasn’t even at Hogwarts nowadays. Zabini _was_ , however, but he wasn’t his old self anymore – probably needed a good shag, if you’d ask Draco. But it was still kind of the same. Just like before, every time he opened his mouth to complain about Golden Boy to anyone who was sitting close, they fled, they groaned at him, or they ignored him.

Not that he could blame them, or anything, but was he _really_ the only one who was distracted by those idiotically big green orbs for eyes behind those ridiculous glasses? Was he truly the only student who wanted to push Potter against a wall to just _shut up?_

And now, instead of ignoring the boy as he had planned to this year, he had shaken Potter’s hand.

He had actually _touched_ him.

And not as a result of physical violence – oh no – this gesture had been friendly. _Friendly._

Draco groaned in frustration, running his shaking hands through his hair.

Everything he did involving Potter was done rashly. Everything he did _not_ involving Potter was cool, focused, clear-headed: everything he, the Malfoy heir, was supposed to be. Yet that infuriatingly stubborn raven-haired boy drew the weirdest, oddest and most raw parts of him above the surface, without even knowing he could.

Would he really be able to act civil? To act as… Draco almost hissed… _friends?_

Zabini’s head quirked up, staring at Draco who was muttering to himself and pacing the Slytherin common room. “You okay, Draco?”

Draco went rigid, his gaze first unfocused before settling down on his dark-skinned friend. “Of course I am. You’re not going all Hufflepuff on me, are you?”

Zabini pulled a face, as if Draco had just insulted him – and in a way, he had. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just wondering why you’re talking to yourself.”

“I’m not –“ Draco sighed. “I’m going to bed. See ya, Blaise.”

He took off, his right hand still going through his hair, until his best friend suddenly called after him. Blaise’s voice had been soft, but the message arrived loud and clear.  “It’s Potter again, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Draco said, also soft, but he had frozen, his right foot dangling above the stairs which led to his private dormitory.

“It _is_.” Blaise rose from his seat. Draco didn’t need to turn around to know he was smirking. “It’s always him, isn’t it? So what’s he done now? Insulted your father? – can’t blame him there – Pushed you down the hall? Or was it him being ‘annoying’ again by ‘not paying attention in class’or _‘_ rubbing his fringe from his face constantly _– doesn’t he know that there are people here trying to concentrate_ –‘”

“Shut up!” Draco said, hissing, and he turned around with his fists balled – but Blaise was laughing.

“You’re so in love, Draco, just admit it.”

“I’m _not_ gay.”

“Didn’t say you were.” Blaise quirked a brow, still smirking like an idiot. “You could be bi, or pan –“

Draco sighed deeply. “Did I mention that I hate you?”

“Only a couple of hundred times… this week.” Blaise’s smirk turned into a smile, which somehow, was worse. “And you still haven’t denied that you’re in love with him.”

“I’m not –“ Draco gave up, resigned, and put up his hands. “I’m not in the mood for this. I’m going to bed.”

“Just admit it, Draco!”

“Admit _what?_ That I am in so-called _love_ with –“

“No, that you met up with him tonight.”

Without Draco’s consent, nor knowing it would happen before it did, his cheeks started burning. Malfoys weren’t romantic. Malfoys didn’t embarrass themselves. Malfoys didn’t _blush_. And here he was, former death-eater and heir of his family fortune, blushing at the question of he had ‘met up’ with the Golden Boy. He was pathetic. “It wasn’t planned.”

The honest-to-god _squeal_ that escaped Blaise’s lips didn’t even sound human, and Draco took that as the right time to leave before it got even worse. He managed to get out a; “good night!” before storming off, trying to forget the look of pure happiness and mischief on his friend’s face.

The Hogwarts he used to know and like was falling apart.

His collected and high-born best friend was squealing.

He, Draco Malfoy, was blushing.

_And that was all due to the infuriating Harry James Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and Savior of the goddamn Wizarding World._


	3. Cheers, Mate

**Harry**

 

“Get out of my way.”

“You’re in _my_ way, you git, I was here first!”

“No you weren’t, I was!”

“Just freaking _move,_ Potter…”

It was a few weeks after their little ‘truce’ had passed, and they hadn’t tried to stalk the other, they hadn’t tried to hex the other and they hadn’t snarled any insults regarding past events, but they couldn’t help but get rid of their built-in frustration with each other by snarling, pushing, pulling and a whole lot of sighing. Today, the first of October, they’d collided at the entrance of the Great Hall, and neither was backing up first to make room for the other.

“You’re blocking everyone’s path, Malfoy,” Harry said tiredly, pointing at the crowd who was assembling behind them.

“It takes two people to clog up the entrance, Golden Boy,” Malfoy smirked.

“Then get out of my way! I can’t move _through_ you, unless you suddenly became a ghost –“

“What’s going on?” Came an annoyed voice behind them – Blaise Zabini. “Why isn’t anyone moving?”

“Yeah – I’m hungry!”

Harry couldn’t help but think that _that_ voice’d had to belong to his best friend, Ron. And not even two seconds later Ron’s face perked up from the crowd, screening it intently until he locked eyes with Harry’s. And then with Malfoy’s. With Harry’s again. His frown increased, and he started pushing and pulling through the crowd, trying to get through.

“Just move, Malfoy,” Harry said again, this time physically pushing the blonde boy. He wanted to get this scene over with before Ron reached them – and he wasn’t even sure why.  

“Hey!” Malfoy brushed his robes, almost jumping away from Harry’s touch. “You can’t just _touch_ me.”

“Then don’t get in my way!”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, as if tired and amused at the same time. “Merlin, you certainly aren’t miss Sunshine in the morning –“

“I can’t very well be any kind of ‘ _miss_ ’, considering I’m a boy –“

“Something of which we are all well aware of, I’m sure,” Ron intervened, stepping between them with a scowling expression on his face. “What are you up to, Malfoy? Trying to starve everyone by blocking the way to breakfast?”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Malfoy feigned surprise, clutching his heart. “You found out about my elaborate evil plan! What _ever_ am I supposed to do _now_?”

Harry fought the urge to laugh at Malfoy’s joke – he was just tired, he didn’t think Malfoy was funny, _absolutely not_ – but he let himself go when he saw Ron’s angry expression. Ron in the morning was bad enough, especially if he hadn’t eaten yet, but him meeting Malfoy before breakfast – that was considered hell for the red-headed boy. “Very funny, _ferret_ ,” Ron said, smirking when Malfoy winced a bit at the nickname. “You still haven’t moved from everyone’s path, though.”

“Harry’s in the way, too,” Malfoy said, pointing vaguely in Harry’s direction.

“Yeah? So? You are supposed to act _good_  on your own, Malfoy, not just copy-cat Harry –“

Malfoy snorted. “And you’re saying Harry’s _so_ flawless, even I would want to copy him?”

Harry groaned, “It’s way too early for this kind of –“

Suddenly someone groped his arm, pulling him harshly from the crowd and into the Great Hall. Harry was just in time to see that Malfoy was pulled along too before he was pushed into a seat at the Gryffindor table. “Honestly!” Hermione said, quickly letting go of Malfoy’s arm – he looked ready to hex her into oblivion for daring to touch him – before settling down beside Harry. “You two act like two bickering children, and it’s got to stop!” Ron sat down beside her, and started filling up his plate. “I don’t care that you two are old enemies – you fought on the same side during the war, you both survived, you both saved each other _and_ you are grown-ups now! Can’t you let it go?”

“We _have_ let it go.” Harry said simply, grabbing some toast. Malfoy wasn’t saying anything, which was to be expected, but he wasn’t walking away either, which was kind of odd. “What’s wrong with an argument now and then?” Harry added, pointing his piece of toast in Malfoy’s direction. The boy snarled at him, which made Harry want to smirk. (So he did.)

Hermione looked up, her mouth half open to start talking, but she faltered when she caught the look in Harry’s eyes. Harry didn’t know what she saw – were his eyebrows on fire or something? – but he did see the gigantic smile that grew on her face before she turned to look at Draco. If it were possible, her smile grew even wider. “You’re right,” she said abruptly, and Ron started couching, having accidentally swallowed a bit too much Pumpkin Juice in his surprise. “Never mind. Do carry on, don’t mind me.” And with that she turned towards the table, as if nothing had happened.

Harry and Malfoy locked gazes – both with their eyebrows raised.

“Uh, Hermione?” Ron said carefully, “Did you just say what I think you said?”

She ignored him. “Could you pass me the eggs, Harry? Thanks.”

He passed her the eggs, still not looking away from Malfoy’s face.

“Um,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m… I’m gonna eat now.” And with that he strode away, his pace a little less graceful and Slytherin than normal – but still very much Draco Malfoy.

Ron stared at his girlfriend – who was casually helping herself with an English breakfast – before turning to Harry. “What in the name of Merlin’s _bloody_ under–“

“Ron!” Hermione scowled, nudging him without even looking up from her plate. “Language.”

He cleared his throat, and said, “What just happened?”

She started smiling again, and when she looked at Harry he could swear her eyes were twinkling with mischief – not something that happened often with her. “Something _good_ is happening, Ron,” she said, still looking Harry in the eye, “Something someone deserves so, _so_ much.”

Harry looked away to the Slytherin table, and his gaze crossed Malfoy’s again.

This time, however, the heat that bubbled up underneath his skin felt different then the usual irritation and annoyance and humiliation – this heat felt like a slow fire, warming him up from the inside, making even his toes twirl.

Hermione’s soft voice brought him back to the present, and Harry turned to her – with more effort than he’d care to admit. “But I’m pretty sure,” she said, looking as if she was telling them her biggest secret, “that you’re not ready to hear about it just yet.”

Harry knew that the last sentence had been directed to him – and he couldn’t help but agree wholeheartedly. 

 

**Draco**

 

After the ‘ _incident_ ’ at breakfast Draco had rushed out of the Great Hall for several reasons.

The first being obvious – _Potter_. The second was that infuriatingly odd muggleborn girl, Granger. And the third was his best friend Blaise who couldn’t stop asking him why he hadn’t punched Potter in the face that morning.

“C’mon, Draco,” Blaise whined, following him like a lost little puppy, obviously not getting the hint that Draco was trying to avoid him. “The rumors about your fight are already spreading – I mean, you _did_ clog up the hall way for nearly twenty minutes…”

Draco pulled a face. “It was ten minutes, at most. And we really need a new threat, Blaise, if _this_ is the standard of our rumors nowadays –“

“You’re changing the subject again –“

“And am I succeeding?”

Blaise laughed, and shoved him. They were walking towards the dungeons together – their first lesson of the Monday being Potions. It was a month since they’d started to brew Veritaserum, and today would be the day that their self-brewed potions would be tested. It’d be an interesting lesson to say in the least. “Who do you reckon shall taste your Potion?” Blaise said after a while of silence.

Draco physically relaxed – he hadn’t expected his best friend to really change the subject so quickly. “Aren’t _you_ my partner?”

“Lisa is.” Blaise reminded him. “I’m with that dumb Hufflepuff remember – Slughorn had pulled us apart after that accident two weeks back…”

“Right.” Draco felt a blush creep up his cheeks – and he had to mentally strain himself to stop it. It didn’t happen often, him being wrong in brewing potions, but that infuriating Potter had distracted him by ( _licking his lips_ ) being Potter, which had resulted in the slight explosion of his wand. (He’d accidentally held it inside the fire, setting of a _Bombarda_ spell without knowing he did. The look on Blaise’s face had almost made up for Slughorn’s detention.)

“But she’s got allergies, hasn’t she?”

“I wouldn’t care if she’d drop dead from it,” Draco said honestly, “I’m _not_ taking it in front of the class.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyway, would it?” Blaise muttered, brushing his hair from his face. He’d grown it out last summer, and Draco had to admit that he looked better this way. “People who are skilled at Occlumency can withstand it, and you’re perfect at it, so –“

“So Slughorn wouldn’t know if my potion would work in the first place. I can see what you’re getting at.” And he did. Blaise was right – his partner couldn’t taste the Potion, and neither could he. “You don’t happen to want to help me out?”

Blaise snorted. “When have you ever needed, or rather asked, for my help?” _Truth_. “And besides, I’m already tasting my own potion – I don’t trust that Hufflepuff kid for one second – so I can’t taste yours.”

Draco cursed, jumping down the last two steps.

“Maybe Potter wants to try your Potion?” Blaise suggested, a twinkle in his eye. “I know the Weasel’s tasting theirs – I heard him complain about a lost bet last week – so Potter’s free to do it for you.”

“For all you know he could be better at Occlumency than I am.” But then Draco remembered Potter’s temper, the way the Golden Boy wore his heart on his sleeves, the way he never held anything back – not in the way Draco did, anyway. Potter was the exact opposite of him, always caring, never cool, never collected and never thinking before speaking. “You know what,” Draco said, smirking, “I actually think he sucks at it, to be honest.”

“There you go,” Blaise said, pushing the doors of the classroom open with a big smile, “Now you can finally find out if he likes you back.”

Draco, being used to this by now, just rolled his eyes at him. “If I can get him to drink my potion, his love life isn’t the most important thing I’d like to know –“

“Oh, no?” Came a voice, which startled both the Slytherins in their walk. Harry Potter was sitting on his table, his legs crossed and his arms by his side. His black hair was literally standing in every direction, as if he’d just been sparked with lightning, and his green eyes were glowing in the dark dungeon. He was also slightly out of breath – he must’ve taken a short-cut to make it to the dungeons before Draco’s done.

Something was twirling in Draco’s stomach, and he had to mentally refrain himself from jumping Potter.

Wait.

What?

“I thought my love life was considered of high importance to you, Malfoy,” Potter said – and did he just _drawl_ his voice? Dear Merlin: Potter was trying to _copy_ him.

And he had to admit; he was pulling it off rather splendidly.

Malfoy sighed, trying to keep his voice as even and unemotional as possible. “Considering we all _already_ know you’re _bedding_ with the Weasel’s sister,” Potter’s face fell for a few seconds before slipping back in a smirking mask, “finding out who your heart greatest desire is isn’t all that important.” Malfoy threw his bag on his table, nearly knocking his cauldron sideways. He couldn’t care less. “So if I was to get you to drink some truth potion, your love life wouldn’t be my priority. You _really_ need a lesson or two in –“

“Right, then, can I have your attention please?” Cut in Professor Slughorn’s excited voice, and reluctantly everyone got to their seats. (Not after Draco had winked at Potter, causing the latter to fall off his table and onto his seat in embarrassment. Blaise had to bite in his own robes to keep himself from laughing too hard.) “As you all know, it is precisely one month after we started brewing our Veritaserum, or, it will be in five more minutes.” He pointed at the clock excitingly, and Draco wondered if the man would start peeing like a happy dog within those next five minutes, too. “All we have to do now is wait and see what happens – you’ve all already decided who is going to test the potion, correct? Whom of you is going to drink it?”

Some hands were raised – and Blaise had been right, Draco saw, for Ron was putting up his hand instead of Potter.

“Draco Malfoy,” Slughorn said suddenly, and Draco jumped, quickly turning to look to his professor again. “and Lisa Turpin. Didn’t you choose?”

“We can’t.” Lisa said before Draco could. “I’m allergic, and he’s a skilled Occlumence.”

“You know Occlumency?” Professor Slughorn asked, obviously baffled, and for the first time he didn’t have a smile on his face. “At _your_ age?”

“Yes.” Draco just answered, not feeling the need explain why he’d needed it in the first place. He didn’t talk about the war, nobody did, and he guessed it would kind of kill the mood to tell him that he’d been forced to do it in order to survive.

“Right, then.” Slightly disappointed, the professor turned to the class. “Any volunteers in wanting to help them out?”

As expected, nobody raised their hands.

If it had been Potter’s potion, everyone would’ve sprung to his aid, even while his reputation for screwing potions up was about as famous as his skill in Quidditch. His, Draco’s, potion however… no matter how good he was, no matter how big his talent in potions was supposed to be – it all didn’t matter in their eyes. Nobody was going to drink a potion made by an ex-deatheater, not even in front of a teacher and their savior.

Draco was about to say that he’d rather have a T for potions than have Slughorn force-feed it to someone, when a clear voice rang through the dungeon.

“I’ll do it.”

Draco’s neck snapped with the speed he’d turned his head, and he wasn’t the only one. Every eye turned to look at the Golden Boy, who’d raised his hand dryly, with a sly smile on his face.

When Slughorn just stared at him as if he’d lost it, he repeated, this time a little louder: “I’ll do it – I’ll drink Malfoy’s potion.”

And Draco was positive that his heart had just skipped a beat.

 

**Harry**

 

For the first time in his Hogwarts career Harry wished he had a camera.

Ron’s face would certainly be worth remembering (a whole Quaffle could’ve fit in his open  mouth, and if he’d been a cartoon character his eyes would’ve popped out) and Dean was surely having trouble breathing, but the _one_ reaction Harry enjoyedthe most was Malfoy’s.

Sure, they still bickered now and then, they could still very easily get under each other’s nerves. But he wasn’t going to sit here and do nothing while Malfoy got humiliated by their whole class like that. Maybe Professor Slughorn wouldn’t even have seen it like that, like _bullying_ , if nobody had volunteered; but Harry knew better.

Nobody would’ve wanted to try Malfoy’s potion willingly, something he wouldn’t’ve done either two years ago, and to have the professor to force someone to take it wouldn’t be all that pleasant either…

So Harry had just gone on impulse and volunteered. He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the defeated look Malfoy’d had on his face minutes earlier.

Maybe it was their ‘ _truce_.’

But whatever it was, he couldn’t help but enjoy the genuine smile on Malfoy’s face thoroughly.

 

**Draco**

 

A bell was ringing. That probably meant that the potions were ready.

Draco couldn’t care less. All he saw was the quick nod of Slughorn granting him permission, and the sly smile Potter shot in his direction before grabbing his stuff, his cauldron and books, before trudging through the class to jump in one of the empty seats at Draco’s and Lisa’s table. Ron followed him, a bit reluctant and still gaping like a stupid fish, and he sat as far away from Draco as possible.

“Have you gone _mad_?” Draco said as soon as Potter sat down. His smile had disappeared – had he seriously smiled? Merlin, he was turning soft – and he knew he was glaring.

“What do you mean?” Potter asked, quirking a brow innocently.

“This!” Draco gestured to him, to the seat he’d taken at the _Slytherin_ side of the classroom _,_ to his own cauldron and lastly at himself. “If it goes wrong, everyone will blame you being hurt on me! I’ll be in Azkaban before you can even say ‘ _it’s fine’_!”

Potter stared at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. “Malfoy, don’t tell me you’re _worried_ –“

Draco snarled. “Don’t be ridiculous, Potter. I’m merely stating the obvious.”

“I know, I know.” Harry took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. The Weasel was still unable to speak, mouthing words that didn’t exist. “And you mean it, too… God.” He ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it up even more. “Listen, we all know you’re the best bloody potion maker of our year, probably our entire school, so you shouldn’t have to worry about me collapsing suddenly. Secondly, are you serious? You really think that they’ll send you to Azkaban for accidentally hurting a student?”

“Yes.” Draco didn’t even care that the whole class was probably listening in on their conversation. “Do you _really_ think they’ll let an ex-death eater walk free after poisoning their _savior_ – even if it was accidental?”

Potter’s smile fell, and he sighed deeply. “Let’s just do this, okay? I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Snapped Draco, turning his attention to his and Lisa’s potion. His hands were still shaking.

“All right, class,” Professor Slughorn called, “Assemble at your tables with groups of four. We’re going to take the potion in turns – one person at a time drinking it, one person asking the rehearsed questions, and two people witnessing it and taking down notes of the effects. We shall only drink _one drop_ each, so the effect of the potion can last five minutes. _No one_ shall drink more. I will have no jokes, no pranks, no accidents, no one stealing their potions under my noses – because the consequences will be quite severe. Is this understood?”

“Yes,” echoed the whole class in unison.

“I’ll take down the notes,” Lisa said quietly, grabbing some parchment. It was obvious that she didn’t really want to be part of this – whatever this was, anyway – but she didn’t really have a choice.

And neither did the Weasel.

“I’ll go first,” Ron said, still stealing glances at the Slytherin. “Gives you more time to back out, mate,” He whispered to Potter, as if Draco wouldn’t hear.

But before he could say something about it, Potter beat him to it. “I won’t back out.”

This day was certainly not what he’d expected it to be when he woke up this morning.

Ron rolled his eyes. “Fine. If you say so, Harry. Can you pass me the Pumpkin Juice, then?”

Potter may have been horrible at potions, but he was even worse at handling them delicately. He almost spilled an entire spoon full of Veritaserum into Ron’s bowl ( _‘Are you trying to poison your best friend, Potter?’ ‘Shut up, Malfoy, my hand just slipped –‘)_ but at last he succeeded in getting just one drop of the potion in.

“Finally.” Ron sighed, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling – obviously used to Potter’s theatrics in this class. “Cheers, mate,” He said, raising his glass, and drank it all down in one big gulp.

“How are you feeling?” Potter asked as soon as his best friend put the glass down.

“Confused, mostly,” Ron answered – and hopefully, truthfully.

The two Gryffindors had obviously stolen their questions from the examples in their book, for they were tediously boring and predictable.

“What’s your favorite colour?”

“Orange.”

 “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“What’s your second name?”

“Bilius.”

Draco started coughing, unable to keep himself from laughing. “Excuse me, but come again? Your name is Ronald _Bilius_ Weasley?”

Ron glared, obviously trying to find a good insult but unable to keep the; “yes, it is” from escaping his lips. “Like your name is any better?”

Draco smirked. “Of course it is.”

“You’re _such_ a pretentious bastard.”

This time Draco let himself laugh, and he clutched his hand above his heart. “Knowing you’re saying this under the influence of a truth potion really warms my heart.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Please, can we not do this right now? We really need to finish the assignment and I don’t like having the words ‘ _pretentious bastard’_ on our final essay.”

“You’re right.” Draco turned to Lisa, pointing at her notes. “Scratch that, and change it into ‘ _glorious human being’_.”

“Sod off.” Potter said, smirking, before turning to Ron again. “What’s your favorite kind of dish –“

“ _Merlin_ , Potter.” Draco leaned forward. “This isn’t how you interrogate someone under the influence of Veritaserum. These are all questions he could’ve answered truthfully without any potion – you need to catch him off-guard, you need to ask him something he’d rather not tell, something even you don’t know…”

“I’m _not_ going to –“

“The ferret is right.” Ron said, startling them both. “I hate to say this, but he is. Slughorn isn’t going to give us a good grade if we keep doing these kind of questions, we need to do something… original.”

“Two minutes left,” Lisa said, quirking a brow. “I suggest you get a move on, whatever kind of questions you want to ask.”

 When nobody said anything, Draco sighed and asked; “Ronald Bilius Weasley –“ _“I hate him,”_ Ron whispered to Potter “- what is your greatest fear?”

Potter chuckled. “Everyone could answer that one for you, Malfoy. It’s spiders.”

“Well, aren’t I glad to know you can answer the question. Such a _shame_ , then, that you _aren’t_ the current subject of a very important part of our N.E.W.T.’s!”

Potter rolled his eyes at him. “Just pointing out the obvious.”

“Well, don’t.” He turned to Ron again, not liking the smirk the red-head was giving him one bit. That Gryffindor needed to be taught a lesson or two on how not to piss a Slytherin off while under the influence of a truth potion. “Have you ever fantasized about kissing a boy?”

Draco ignored Lisa’s barking laughter – and purposely didn’t look in Potter’s direction to see his reaction – but continued to stare at Weasley, both his eyebrows raised and his hands tucked underneath his chin as if to appear curious.

The Weasel was obviously struggling very hard to keep himself from answering – and the fact that he even felt the need to do so was answer enough. Still, Malfoy enjoyed seeing him struggle. “N-N- C’mon, _Merlin_ , n-“ Ron swore loudly under his breath before finally saying; “Fine. Fine! Stupid bloody potion and a buffoon of a Malfoy – _Yes_. Once. Now shut up.”

Potter’s hand fell on the table with a loud thud. “Seriously?”

“Yes.” Ron’s ears were about as red as his hair – which was saying something. “Let it go, I beg you.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Draco leaned forward even more, his bum leaving his chair completely. “When?”

“In our Fourth year.” Ron answered quickly, groaning immediately after. “I take it back, this was a stupid idea – I want to do those stupid and boring questions again.”

Potter looked torn, as if he either wanted to bolt from this conversation to save him and his friend a bunch of embarrassment, or join in for more information. The Slytherin side of him must’ve won – because Potter’s lips turned upward in a smirk before he asked innocently; “Who?”

“You’re a right bloody bastard, you are,” Ron said, hiding his face in his hands.

Draco couldn’t help it; he was curious. He hadn’t really expected the boy to say yes – but it wasn’t so surprising when he thought about it, every boy fantasized once or twice about a guy… _right?_ – but he couldn’t help but be insanely curious to find out whom had been the subject of the Weasel’s shameless fantasies.

“Krum.” Ron finally said, his voice a little louder than intended. His whole face was red at this point, his hands were shaking, and he looked more murderous than he’d ever looked before. “It was Victor Krum – are you happy now?”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Draco said, and leaned back.

“You, my dear Malfoy,” Ron said, pointing at him angrily, “are an awful person.”

“Maybe.” Draco admitted, “But I’m rich and I’m pretty so it doesn’t really matter.”

Potter choked on his laughter.

 

**Harry**

 

The last thing he’d expected to have during a Potion lesson was fun, but here Harry was, laughing so hard he was afraid he was going to cry – about a joke _Draco Malfoy_ just told, no less.

“I do sincerely hope you are taking this assignment seriously,” Professor Slughorn said sternly, though he was smiling. He had appeared at their table the moment Harry’d started laughing.

“Of course we are, sir,” Lisa Turpin said quickly, trying to keep the smile off her face. “We’re nearly done with testing their potion.”

“Good, very good!” Professor Slughorn grasped for her parchment, obviously wanting to check what they’d said, but Malfoy pulled the parchment away quicker than Harry’d been able to blink.

“Sorry, Sir,” Malfoy drawled, “We’re still finishing up, perfecting it – we don’t want to ruin the first draft by spoiling it to you, would we?”

If the Professor was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Of course.” He sighed, clasping Potter quickly on his still shaking shoulders before saying with a thundering voice; “If all went well, the effects on the first test person should’ve worn off. It’s time to discuss and prepare the next round!”

The minute Professor Slughorn turned away, Ron cursed under his breath and said, “We’re never discussing this. _Ever_. And don’t you breathe one single word of this to anyone, Malfoy,” he added, his left hand grasping his robes – probably with his wand safely tucked inside. “And most importantly,” he turned to Harry this time, “I’ll _kill_ you if you tell Hermione.”

Harry snorted. “Are you sure you don’t want to? Maybe you both can drool and stare at Krum’s newest Quidditch photo shoot –“

Ron punched him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry smiled broadly.

“Which means your potion wore off,” Malfoy said, sighed, and handed him half a glass of Pumpkin Juice without further ado. Harry hadn’t even noticed him prepare it – but he should’ve known that _of course_ Malfoy could do it as delicately and fast as only he could. “Bottom’s up.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, winked at Malfoy – what? It wasn’t as if the other boy hadn’t done that before. Multiple times. That day already. – and gulped it down. “Oh,” he said, scrunching up his face. “This just tastes like Pumpkin Juice.”

“No kidding, Potter.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s tasteless, even you should know that.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect it, so you can just –“

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” Lisa Turpin intervened, ticking with her Quill on the table impatiently. “We’ve got five minutes, and Draco hasn’t prepared his questions yet.”

“I didn’t need to,” Malfoy said, and somehow Harry believed him instantly. “ What’s your name?”

Harry had expected him to at least ask him something insanely embarrassing, so his voice sounded a bit higher than normal when he stated, “Harry James Potter.”

“Eye color?”

“Emerald green.” Being under a truth potion felt weird. He didn’t have to fight to answer the questions (yet) but it still felt as if his body was physically straining itself to get the answer out as quickly as possible, as if something really horrible would happen if he wouldn’t.

Malfoy _tsk_ ’ed. “Very specific, but all right. What’s your boggart’s form?”

“Malfoy,” Ron warned, “That’s personal.”

“What, and me asking your gay fantasies wasn’t?”

“I haven’t got any _gay fantasies –“_

“Dementors.” Harry said quickly, his hands balled under the table. This question was still okay to answer, but he still didn’t really want to share his worst fears with his ex-nemesis. 

Malfoy seemed to have stopped breathing.

Lisa answered for her. “Wait. Just – wait. Your biggest fear is… a Dementor? Merlin, Potter, you’re the one who killed You-Know-Who, aren’t you supposed to –“

“I don’t know what I’m bloody well supposed to fear most, all right?” He snapped. “Shall I go with the man who murdered tons of people, including my own family and myself, or with your great sweet aunt Bellatrix who murdered my godfather and tortured Hermione, or –“

“Harry!” Ron snapped, quickly grabbing Harry’s shoulder to intervene,   
“snap out of it.”

Harry sighed deeply, trying to control his heartbeat. “Sorry. You’re right. I’ll shut up now.”

Ron nodded gratefully, before turning to Malfoy and adding; “Leave it, okay? Just do another question.”

Harry was infinitely grateful for Ron right now – and the fact that Malfoy seemed to listen to him. “Fine. Okay.” The Slytherin took a deep breath, and said, “Are you a virgin?”

“ _Malfoy_!” Came from three sides of him.

He didn’t seem to care. “Well?”

Harry was trying to say no – he really was. It wasn’t as if he was ashamed that nothing had happened between him and Ginny, but to admit _that_ … to Malfoy, no less… in a crowded room full of his fellow students, who probably expected him to have shagged at least a dozen people because of his fame… “Yes.”

If Malfoy was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“All right, we’re done now,” Ron said, still feeling on edge.

“We’re not.” Malfoy pointed at the clock. “I got more than two minutes left.”

“I _really_ don’t like your questions,” Harry admitted.

The other boy smiled. “I know you don’t.”

“Can I ask something?” Lisa Turpin said suddenly. She’d put her quill on the table, the parchment included, and she looked more excited than she’d been all morning.

“Sure,” Harry said before Malfoy could argue.

“You just said You-Know-Who murdered your family –”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and Harry fought the urge to do the same.

“- and you, too. Is that true? Did you really die – are the rumors true?”

_Oh, bugger._

He didn’t need to look at Malfoy to know he was listening intently and curiously – merlin, he didn’t even need to look around the class to know that everyone who’d heard the question had dropped silent, too. All he knew was that he _couldn’t_ answer that question, never in a million years, not without admitting the fact that he was really the freak they all thought him to be.

Ron was talking, Harry knew that, but he couldn’t concentrate on it right now. It took all his willpower to keep his lips tight together, to keep himself from ruining everything.

But when his head started to ache from the lack of oxygen, he let go.

To hell with it.

“Yes,” he blurted out, gasping to catch some breath. “Yes, I died, are you happy now? I’m the ‘ _Boy Who Lived – Twice’_! I’m the freak you all believe me to be, so I really hope this satisfied whatever twisted needs you have, and if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to –“

“You’re not leaving.” Malfoy was the one who’d interrupted first, and he was standing up, too.

(Harry couldn’t even remember rising up from his seat. Nor could he remember everyone falling silent to watch the scene.)

“And you’re not a freak, Potter, are you out of your mind?”

It took a second for Harry to comprehend what Malfoy was saying. And even when he did it didn’t make sense. “Are you sure? I survived the killing curse twice, how am I not –“

“You’re a freaking idiot, Potter, don’t you see how amazing that is?” Malfoy ran his hand through his hair. Malfoy’s grey piercing eyes seemed warm for the first time in years, containing some raw emotion Harry didn’t even know he had. “Just tell me one thing, one single thing, and then I’ll let you go.”

“Fine.”

Harry regretted it the moment Malfoy started to smile. “Ever wanted to sleep with someone currently in this room?”

The whole class bursted out laughing, the tension that was building up gone within seconds. Even Ron spluttered, his breath caught in his throat from the surprise.

“I – what?” Harry was too baffled to feel the effort it cost not to answer. “Did you just –“

“Answer the question, Potter.” Malfoy said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Have you ever fantasized about sleeping with someone from this class?”

And then Harry realized what he was doing.

Sure, on any given moment this question would’ve been humiliating, something the Slytherin would’ve asked to anger Harry. It sure would’ve embarrassed the heck out of Ron, maybe resulting in Ron punching Malfoy in the face.

Now, however…

Malfoy had succeeded in focusing the class’ attention at Harry’s embarrassment rather than his weirdness, making them forget about their earlier discussion by making them even more curious for the next one.

And for a fleeting second Harry wanted to hug him.

“Yes,” he admitted, letting it and the tension that came with it go. “I have. Problem?”

Malfoy smirked. “Not at all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to my beta, StellaTheReviewer. 
> 
> Paddie loves you.


	4. Truth or Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the not-updating in two months. Don't worry, it won't happen again.  
> This chap is longer than usual, as a way of making up.
> 
> If you like it, please remember to leave a comment! :)

**_Harry_ **

 

 

It took a long while before everyone had let that horrific Potions lesson go. Girls had been begging Harry for days to just tell them who’d been his fantasy – ‘ _you can always be honest with me, Harry’, ‘you can trust me, Harry,’ ‘for all you know your fantasies could be the same as mine_ ’ – and guys had started laughing whenever Harry’d flush with embarrassment remembering that his virgin status was common knowledge nowadays.

And after a week it seemed as if everything slowly returned to normal. The harassment lessened when the girls noticed he wasn’t interested. The laughter died down.

But there was one person who just couldn’t let that class go, repeating everything that happened in a loop over and over in his head.

And no matter how hard Harry tried, he couldn’t, _wouldn’t,_ let it go.

“’morning,” Ron said a week after the incident, waving his toast at Harry when he stepped into the Great Hall. Hermione was sitting next to him, reading the Daily Prophet with her usual scowl, but she smiled warmly when Harry sat across from them.

“Hi, Harry. Everything all right?”

He shrugged, grabbing some toast, his eyes scooting over to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was already at his table, looking bored from listening to his best friend talking cheerfully.

“He’s obsessing again,” Ron said simply, grinning when Harry glared at him. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right.” He turned to Hermione, pointing his finger at Harry accusingly. “ _He_ spend almost _an hour_ pining about the fact the ferret had tried to help him a week ago.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot upwards, and she lowered her paper slowly. “He helped you? The way I figured it, judging by the story you and Ron told me a week ago, he was the one who’d ended up getting you to blab your most intimate secrets to the whole class? He’s the reason why people have been bothering you for a whole week!”

“Yes,” Harry admitted reluctantly, breaking a toast in tiny little pieces, “but, without him, they’d be blabbing about my death, instead of my virgin status. And embarrassing as it is, I’d rather be a victim of the latter.”

Hermione had paled at the casual mention of his death, but she brushed it off quickly. “Kind enough as _that_ is, it doesn’t justify the other things he’s embarrassed you about all these years. And quit playing with your food, Harry, you’re not a child.”

“And you’re not his mom,” Ron pointed out, grinning, which earned him a friendly shove from his girlfriend.

Just when Harry wanted to take a sip of his Pumpkin Juice, Seamus jumped in next to him, beaming from ear to ear.

“’Morning!” He said, grabbing Harry’s juice, and he chucked it backwards. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“It’s a _Monday_ ,” Ron reminded him carefully, staring at Seamus who had started devouring Harry’s breakfast right in front of the baffled boy. “Are you on any meds?”

If possible, Seamus’ smile turned even wider. “Didn’t you see the pamphlet hanging in the common room this morning?” He asked instead of answering, leaning in closer to the trio, and they all leaned in as an instinct. He continued, his voice almost a whisper; “The _Slytherins_ are holding a party next Friday. At _their_ common room! They even gave away their password!”

If Harry had been holding anything, he’d dropped it.

If he’d been drinking or eating something, he would’ve choked.

“What?” Harry spluttered, his eyes immediately searching the Slytherin table for his blonde nemesis. “A party? For all houses? Who arranged it? Who’s idea is it? Are we going? What kind of party is it? Do the professors know? Are –“

“Merlin, Harry,” Seamus laughed, and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to push him down on the bench. (He’d unconsciously lifted, as if he’d wanted to run somewhere. Totally not towards Draco Malfoy to demand an explanation for this nonsense, absolutely not, what are you talking about?) “You’re talking faster than Hermione does in class – which is saying something.”

“Hey! I’m right here!”

Seamus ignored her. “As for your questions; I have no idea what kind of party it is. Dean said that there are rumors of alcohol being involved – and knowing the quality of Slytherins, there probably is. Yes, it’s a party for all houses. Blaise Zabini, the one who signed the pamphlet, said it was a way of getting more tolerance for the other houses, a sort of start for us all working together.”

“Working together?” Ron repeated slowly, his voice dark. “With the Slytherins? Fat chance.”

Seamus sighed, and he pushed his – Harry’s, actually, but whatever – plate away. “Maybe they’d surprise you, you know. I guess it’s the whole point of this.” He turned to Harry again. “As for your other question, whether we’re going or not... listen. You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked, ignoring Ron’s bellowing laughter in the background. “Um, yes, I am aware.”

“The Gryffindors...” Seamus continued, “Well, they look up to you. To Ron, Hermione, Neville – us, too. So if we go, they all go. That may even set off the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to do the same.”

“And why, my dear Seamus,” Ron said, waving his toast around, “would we ever want to be in the Slytherin’ dungeons? Voluntarily? Without any good moral reason?”

Harry’s eyes traveled, for the thousandth time that morning, back to the Slytherin table. Malfoy however looked up at the same time, and both the boys stilled, suddenly caught in ‘the act.’

Whatever it was, whatever you wanted to call _‘it’_ , they both didn’t seem to be able to move.

It wasn’t until Blaise Zabini nudged Malfoy that the connection broke, and Harry quickly looked away before it’d happen again.

Ron and Hermione were both staring at him, Ron in total confusion and Hermione with a big grin. Seamus, who hadn’t noticed anything, kept on talking to Ron agitatedly.

“- because it’s good, Ron, because Slytherins are people, too, and why wouldn’t we want to see what they have planned for us?”

Harry cleared his throat, his eyes scooting over the Slytherin table one more time, a blush he quite possibly couldn’t even being to explain flowering on his cheeks.

Why ever not, indeed?

 

**_Harry_ **

****

It was Friday evening, six o’clock, and Harry Potter was panicking.

“I didn’t have this many clothes yesterday,” he groaned to Ron, who was just lying on his bed lazily, his feet dangling in the air.

Every bit of clothing Harry possessed was either laying on the ground – after being thrown there in an anger fit – or hanging loose in his closet, most T-shirts not even folded, the jeans just folded together in a big pile of unclean clothes.

“Yes, you did.” Ron retorted, throwing a tiny red ball up and down. “Though I don’t get why you’re bothering to redress at all.”

“I can’t just wear my school clothes.” Harry threw away the twentieth jumper that had suddenly appeared in his closet, and he groaned again. Everything in his closet was either for school – and no matter what Ron said, he would _not_ wear his uniform to a party – or too big for him. He held up a baby-blue T-shirt, one he’d worn thousands of times, and he threw it away again after reevaluation that ‘ _well, it kind of doesn’t fall from my shoulders like the others do_ ’ wasn’t good enough.

Ron sighed. “You’re acting like a girl trying to impress a boy, mate.”

“Shut up.” Harry snapped back, and threw one pair of his second-hand jeans at him as an emphasis. He hoped it hurt. (Okay, not really, but maybe just a little bit.)

“Hey!” Ron quickly got up, his mouth open to retort something, until he stilled, staring at the pants in his hands. “These are humongous, dude. Why do you even have these? You’ve never been larger than size 28.”

“They’re Dudley’s.” Harry said, his tone light, and he turned to the closet again. _Time to change the subject_. “The only thing I have that’s even close to ‘fancy’ is the... well, thing I wore to the Yule Ball in Fourth year.”

“No offense, but that thing was hideous.” Ron dropped the pants, and joined Harry at the entrance of his closet. Instantly, he started groaning, too, and picked up one of Harry’s T-shirts. “Why do you have so many blue clothes? It doesn’t even match your eyes.”

“That is the gayest thing that has ever been said in this room, and _I’m_ the only gay one here.”

Harry and Ron quickly turned around, to see Seamus staring at them both with his eyebrows raised.

The other (gay, apparently) boy was wearing a new and ironed black blouse with equally black trousers, with his Gryffindor tie perfectly made around his neck. His hair was gelled backwards, and he even seemed to have washed his face and brushed his teeth.

This was so unusual for the boy, that Harry had trouble focusing on the other shocking thing he’d said. Ron, however, had no such trouble.

“Wait a minute,” Ron said, slowly, “you’re _gay_? Since when?”

“Since always, actually,” Seamus laughed, “but don’t change the subject. Why were you talking about Harry’s eyes?”

Harry cleared his throat, trying to ignore the blush creeping up his cheeks. “I need a good outfit for tonight, and not just my outfit for school, like Ron suggested. But I don’t have any good clothes for tonight. Where did you buy those?”

“I ordered them as soon as I knew about the party. Why didn’t you?”

Ron groaned again, his hands in his hair this time. “Why is _every_ guy suddenly trying to dress nice? It’s just a party!”

“Yes.” Seamus rolled his eyes, and jumped on his bed, his books flying off and bouncing on the already messy floor. “It’s _just_ a party, you’re right. A party with only _every_ student in this school. Including all the – well, for you two, girls. Single girls. Surrounded by booze. It’s the first interhouse party in Hogwarts history, and it’s located in the _Slytherin dungeons_. How on earth, Ron, are you the only one who doesn’t want to dress to impress?”

It stayed quiet for several seconds.

Then – “Merlin, I need to change!”

 

**_Draco_ **

 

The party was about to start, and Draco Malfoy knew he looked absolutely ravishing.

Yes, of course, he knew as no other that vanity was supposedly a bad trait to have. You were supposed to be modest, to act surprised whenever someone called you handsome, and you were to just smile and say ‘thank you’.

But he couldn’t help but smirk and say _‘yes, I know’_ , when Blaise’s mouth had dropped open the moment Draco stepped from his room.

Draco turned away from his still shocked best friend to look at the black and polished marble decorating the common room’s wall – which was so clean, it could basically be used as a mirror. He was wearing tight black leather trousers, ones that his mother at first had refused to buy him for it was, as they were, according to her, ‘ _indecent’_ , but at last she had succumbed and bought them anyway. Draco was infinitely grateful for it, for without them, his outfit simply wouldn’t have been perfect. His blouse was so white it was almost glowing, and the top three buttons were opened to show off his marble skin. His hair was hanging loose around his face, differently from its usual slickness, and he hadn’t brushed it, either. He’d refused to wear his Slytherin tie – which had been an order from Blaise, unfortunately – so he’d instead draped his Slytherin tie across his neck loosely.

Draco turned around again, and his smirk still hadn’t disappeared. “Do _please_ close your mouth, Blaise, you’re not a fish.”

Blaise glared at him (but did close his mouth.) “So, you’re ready, then?”

Draco just gestured to himself, and raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Blaise sighed, rolling his eyes, “I shouldn’t even have asked.”

Blaise himself, of course, was just as on point as Draco was. They both knew how important it was to impress all the other houses – especially since the war, with all the (maybe rightful) prejudiced views against the Slytherin house – and so they couldn’t afford to look anything less than perfect.

Blaise was wearing black trousers, black polished shoes, a black blouse and his Slytherin tie. (He’d said he’d matched his outfit with someone, probably for some dumb noble reason, but Merlin only knew who, since Blaise refused to tell him.)

“Draco!” A fourth year came running towards him, his hands full of square un-moving pictures made of out of carton.

 _Muggle_.

Draco shivered, before sighing and turning to the small boy. He was at least two feet shorter than he was. “Yes?”

“We’re not sure what kind of music we’re supposed to be playing.” The boy looked absolutely frightened, and Draco couldn’t help but enjoy it. (Just a little! It wasn’t as if he liked tormenting children... Fine, maybe a bit.) “We have songs like _‘you’re still the one’_ , by a, a man... no, woman, called Shania Twain... And we have one from a muggle named Will Smith –“

“Listen.” Draco said, holding up one hand. The other boy immediately fell silent. “I honestly don’t _care_ , as long as it’s classy, has a beat, and sounds distinctively like music. So take your weird looking black round things with you, and be gone.”

The boy nodded vigorously, before he scattered, his black robe flying behind him.

Blaise sighed. “You know he didn’t do anything wrong, right?”

“And you know I’m not the Slytherin prince without a reason, right?”

His dark-skinned friend chuckled. “Fine, fine. You enjoy your little moments of power. Just know that those ‘black round things’, as you called them, have an actual name; records.”

“Records?” Draco turned to look at him. “Records of who winning what?”

Blaise just started laughing.

Loudly.

And Draco had trouble resisting the urge to hiss at him. “Stop laughing! We’re supposed to take care of the incoming guests, Blaise, not giggle like schoolgirls –“

“Oh, I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Blaise didn’t stop laughing, though, and he waved his arm around helplessly. “It’s just that you’re so... _adorably oblivious_ to muggle stuff.”

 _I’m not going to blush. I am not._ “Blaise,” Draco started, slowly, his voice even and dead-serious. “I’m the Malfoy heir, Slytherin prince,” at this point, he purposely ignored Blaise rolling his eyes at him, “former Death-Eater and ex-convict. How am I, according to you, adorable?”

“The big grey puppy-eyes certainly help in that aspect.”

Something in Draco’s chest fluttered helplessly when he turned around and saw a green-eyed, lightning-scarred, bespectacled boy grinning up at him.

Yes, up.

Up, and up, and _up_.

It was as if Draco had never realized their differences in height.

(Why did that difference make him so happy?)

Instead, Draco sneered at him, and chided; “Been staring at my eyes a long time, have you, Potter? Never knew you for a queer one.” Without waiting for the other boy to retort something, he glanced at the clock and added, almost angrily; “You’re too early.”

Potter shrugged, still smiling too big. His Gryffindor friends were all standing beside him, staring at the room in either disgust or curiosity – though the latter was more common among them, especially for the Granger girl – but Potter’s focus was all on Draco.

And Draco had no idea how to feel about that.

“We were curious,” Potter said, “wanted to see the Slytherin dungeon before it got packed.”

Ron, who was standing next to him snorted. (Was the Weasel seriously wearing a white blouse? With a red bowtie? How disastrous.)

Potter nudged his friend, and his eyes traveled back to Draco. “So, what were your...” suddenly, his jaw slacked, and breath stuck in his throat as if he’d choked on something. Potter’s gaze was stuck just below Draco’s chest – and if that didn’t make Draco feel flushed already, it was the gorgeous blush playing on Potter’s cheeks.

Wait a second.. gorgeous?

Draco resisted the urge to turn, flee, and jump into the lake. ( _And hopefully drown in the process_.) This was the millionth time – that day – that he’d thought about the Savior in an unsavory way, and it really ought to stop before things happened. Things that his family would gladly kill him for.

But instead of doing anything that might stop the other boy from staring at his trousers, he kept silent. Surely dragging out Potter’s misery, he’d later admit to Blaise, but in reality he tried to drown in as much as Potter’s awe as he could. It wasn’t exactly common, a look without either hatred of disgust from the other boy, and he had to savor every exception he got.

“Cat got your tongue?” Blaise suddenly said, smirking, and Potter jumped up, his face flushed red.

“No – no, it’s just... _Malfoy_.” Potter ignored his red-headed friend groaning loudly in annoyance. “You’re wearing leather.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“But... you... _leather_...”

Granger finally ( _pitifully_ ) intervened, locked her arm around Potter’s, and smiled broadly at Draco and Blaise. “Thank you both, for inviting us to your house. And Harry,” she turned to her best friend, supposedly scolding – though Draco could see the smirk tugging at her lips – “it’s time to go and settle down.”

After the Gryffindors had all gone and searched for a spot near the fireplace to sit, Blaise turned to Draco with a mischievous glance in his eyes, and a million questions on his lips.

Draco just sighed, and said, “Don’t.”

Blaise grinned even wider. “I wasn’t even saying anything.”

“You wanted to.”

“Well, I can’t exactly blame myself for being curious about the definite _sex_ look Potter was giving you just now –“

“Shut. _Up_.”

Draco was absolutely positive that Blaise’s laughter was loud enough to be heard throughout the entire school. (And his blush clear enough to be seen from outer space.)

 

**_Harry_ **

 

No matter how many times Hermione insisted and assured him in the next three hours, he had _not_ been flirting with Malfoy. (He really hadn’t. He’d just been surprised, that’s all, because how often did you get to see someone like _Draco Malfoy_ wear leather?)

To prove Hermione wrong - and maybe himself - he’d purposely avoided even _looking_ at the blonde boy.

The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were sitting around the black leather couches at the fireplace, lazily watching the Slytherins trying to get everyone to dance on the muggle music. (Though why the Slytherins had chosen to play _that_ kind of music, was a mystery to Harry.) Even Zabini was dancing, twirling Lisa Turpin around, grinning like a maniac.

“We should dance,” Hermione huffed, her feet tapping on the ground in sync with the rhythm of the music. “It’s a party. We should just...”

“Go play footsie with the Slytherins on the dance floor?” Ron suggested, and he snorted. His fifth butterbeer glass was nearly empty, and he chugged the last bit down in one go. “I don’t think so.”

She scowled at him. “ _This_ is the precise reason why they organized this party to begin with, Ronald! To get along! And your attitude is, honestly, worse than how any of the Slytherins have been behaving tonight. They have been kind hosts, and no bad comments, nor slurs, have been made yet. Even Harry and Draco seem to have made a truce!”

Harry jumped up, suddenly jerked awake from his sleepy trance. “Um, what?”

Ron groaned loudly, his head falling down on the couch in defeat. “One mention of ‘Draco’, and he’s all ears. _Unbelievable_.”

“Oh, sod off, will you -”

“Evening.” Blaise Zabini jumped on the couch next to Harry’s, grinning at them all. Terry Boot quickly scooted to make way for Malfoy – who had followed his best friend. (Not that Harry was watching him. Honestly.)

Both the Slytherins were breathing heavily, as if they’d danced for hours - which they had - but they both still looked perfect, as if their hair and outfit had been done by magic. (They probably had, now that Harry thought about it.)

“Evening,” Ron said carefully, straightening his back immediately.

“The party’s turned out nicely, didn’t it?” Zabini asked, looking around at the room proudly.

And really, he’d ought to be proud.

As Hermione had said earlier, everyone was decent. Kind. Normal. No wands had been drawn - though it had been a close call when Zacharias Smith had accidentally dropped his Firewhiskey on Ginny’s dress. (She’d just punched him, instead, which had earned her a big round of applause from Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Slytherins alike.) The lights were slowly changing from green to blue to yellow to red - it had only taken Harry about 1,5 hours and some hints from Hermione to figure out they were the colors of all the different houses - which illuminated the black marble walls. The Slytherin common room, which had scared and impressed him so much almost six years ago, looked absolutely stunning.

“I love it,” Hermione said, leaning in closer to Zabini. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but _everyone_ is  behaving nicely to one another...”

Zabini sighed heavily. “Sure. No fighting yet. Still, every house sticks together, there’s no mingling. I’d hoped the dancing would help, but alas, only the Slytherins dared to. You Gryffindors are just sitting around, drinking alcohol-free booze, the Ravenclaws are gossiping and the Hufflepuffs don’t even dare sit anywhere. It’s a nice party, but it’s still not the party I wanted.”

“Because you’d skin every single Slytherin if they didn’t,” Malfoy said, his voice a drawl, but he was smirking at his friend.

“True enough,” Zabini admitted, and he laughed.

Ron and Hermione were just staring at the two boys, as if they were seeing them for the first time. (And in a way, they were.) Zabini and Malfoy were acting like, well.. teenagers. Normal teenagers joking around and laughing, not at all the rigid ice prince they’d seen for all those years. Maybe they were faking it to fool the Gryffindors, but something told Harry that Malfoy’s smirk (and Zabini’s laugh) had been genuine.

Harry tossed an empty butterbeer bottle from his left hand to his right, and he cleared his throat, purposely not looking at the Slytherin boys. “Maybe you need something to get the party started.”

Malfoy gave a short laugh. “In case you haven’t noticed, which in my guess you didn’t, seeing as you haven’t left your butt all night long, the party _has_ already started. _Two_ hours ago. Honestly, Potter, you really ought to have your eyes checked out if you plan on having any sort of career.”

The urge to look up and see if Malfoy had indeed been smiling – he sounded that way, anyway – was almost too great to resist, but Harry kept his eyes on his bottle. He quickened his pace with the throwing. “That’s not what I meant. I meant something like... a game.”

“Oh!” Hermione clapped her hands suddenly, almost disrupting Harry’s game. She quickly scooted away so he could continue throwing the bottle. “Oh, Harry, that’s a wonderful idea! We could play Never Have I Ever, or Truth or Dare –“

Malfoy coughed. “Which are both _muggle_ games, and made for small children, Granger.”

Harry’s bottle was moving so fast now, it was as if the bottle was flying rather than being thrown. (Harry himself had no idea how or why he was doing it, but it was in any case better than looking at Malfoy _wearing leather._ ) “How many children do you know who play drinking games, Malfoy? I don’t know much about your childhood, but –“

“Then don’t assume anything,” the blonde boy snapped, and Harry looked up for the first time.

The bottle slipped from his hands, flying to his right and smacking against the wall.

“Bugger,” Harry cursed, turning around to see if he hit anyone. “Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Seamus yelled back, rubbing his shoulder with a painful grimace. “Though why you’re throwing bottles at me, no clue.”

“Sorry,” Harry repeated, softer this time, and he turned back.

This was the second time he’d lost focus after seeing Dra – _Malfoy_. Maybe he should look at the boy constantly instead, because ignoring him hadn’t helped, clearly.

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy lifted a perfect arched eyebrow, “You’re even more clumsy than normal. Been drinking already?”

“Sod off, Malfoy, it was an accident.”

“Don’t start, you two,” Hermione quickly intervened, and she turned to Zabini. “But? Shall we do it?”

“Which game do you suggest?” He asked. “We can’t really expect everyone to be honest in _Never Have I Ever_ , and _Truth or Dare_ takes Veritaserum, which I don’t have.”

Harry’s head snapped to Zabini’s. “Veritaserum? You need a _truth serum_ for this game?”

“To assure everyone’s speaking the truth?” Zabini started grinning. “Of course.”

“I have it,” Malfoy equipped, and every head turned to look at him. His ashen-white cheeks suddenly darkened – was Malfoy actually blushing? Was he even capable of it? – and he quickly cleared his throat. “For experimental reasons, of course, I wasn’t planning on _using_ it.”

Ron snorted. “Sure you weren’t.”

Malfoy glared at him. “Never _you_ mind my reasons, just know that I have it in my possession. We can use it for that stupid muggle game if you’d all like, so Zabini can go to bed thinking he’s made a difference with this party.”

“Great. Thank you. Who’s in?” Hermione asked, turning to look at everyone who was either sitting around the couches with them, or standing behind them.

“I’m in,” Harry said when no one had answered, and he lifted his hand.

As soon as Harry had put up his hand, everyone lifted his or hers, too. Harry tried to think it wasn’t because of him, but judging by the annoyed scowl Malfoy was wearing, it was.

“I’ll get the Veritaserum, then,” Malfoy said after an awkward silence. “Blaise, save my seat.”

 

It took a while, but at last everyone had found a seat. Harry was squashed between Hermione and Seamus, with Ron and Dean at either end of the couch. On the couch across from him were the Eight-Year Slytherins (with Malfoy in the middle, who was purposely Not-Looking at him, just as much as he was Not-Looking at Malfoy), on the right were the Hufflepuffs and on his left were the Ravenclaws. Seventeen-year-old Seventh-Years (who were legally adults) were propped between the couches, or sitting at the far end of them, and the ones who weren’t allowed to drink we’re enjoying themselves on the now Slytherin-free dancefloor.

“Right,” Zabini began, lifting a bottle of Firewhiskey and a small vial of Veritaserum. “This is how it works. I’m going to spike this with the truth serum, and everyone takes a sip. It’ll probably –“

“ _Probably?_ ” Parvati whispered to her neighbor worriedly.

“- work for an hour or so. Everyone will also get a glass of non-spiked whiskey,” he nudged Malfoy, who lazily lifted another bottle, “to take a sip whenever the bottle lands on you. If you’re the one asking someone Truth or Dare, and you give out a dare, you take a sip, too. Are the rules clear?”

Everyone nodded.

The two Slytherins took a sip first, filled their glasses, and passed the bottles.

When it was time for Harry to take a sip, he was more worried that he’d get infected by someone else rather than the potion Malfoy had made. And if that wasn’t worrying, he didn’t know what was.

“I’ll start,” Zabini said loudly when the bottles had arrived back at him again. He leaned forward, spun the bottle who was laying in the middle, and watched it slowly turn towards... Ron.

Zabini grinned. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” Ron said quickly, “absolutely dare.”

Zabini slowly took a sip of his non-spiked Firewhiskey, waited until Ron did the same, before he said: “I dare you to give Seamus a lap dance.”

Everyone started laughing, and even Seamus was clapping his hands enthusiastically.

“No way,” Ron protested, his ears as red as his hair. “I am _not_ giving Seamus a lap dance. I don’t swing that way.”

“My dear Weasel,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes, “no one even _suggested_ you were. Though if you’d rather I transfigure him into, I don’t know, a certain Bulgarian Quidditch player..”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Ron snapped, his eyes darting between his girlfriend and Malfoy. “Not a word.”

Malfoy grinned.

It was a slow and teasing grin, a grin one would normally give to one of your best friends.

To see it on Malfoy’s face, and to see it directed in _Ron’s_ direction?

Well, Harry was sure this evening would change things. And he had no idea how to feel about it yet.

Malfoy’s hands were in the air, and he said with a drawling voice; “I have not said anything yet, _Bilius_.”

Ron groaned. “I really do hate you.”

“Oh, I know.” Malfoy’s grin turned even wider, and something twirled in Harry’s stomach. “But you still have to give Seamus a lap dance.”

“Fine!” Ron threw his hands in the air – and barely missed his girlfriend’s face. “Fine, I’ll bloody well give him a lap dance, you perverted little snakes!”

About two minutes and a whole lot of giggling – _the girls_ – hollering – _the Slytherins and Gryffindors_ – and gags – _cue Hermione and Harry_ – later, Ron was back in his seat with a surely permanent blush coloring his features. Seamus was still grinning like an idiot, his hands in his hair as if he’d just had the nicest treat ever, and he made fake kissing motions with his lips.

“Thank you, Ron,” Seamus said teasingly, which made Ron blush even more. “If I’d known you could dance like that, Hermione would’ve had some serious competition.”

Hermione, blushing almost as much as Ron, quickly said: “Ron, it’s your turn.”

Ron was happy to oblige, and he spun the bottle.

It landed on Lisa Turpin, and before Ron could even say a word, she said: “Dare.”

They both took a sip, and Ron said, grinning, “I dare you to kiss Terry Boot, without touching anything.”

The game quickly escalated after that. Parvati had been dared to write a love letter to Slughorn, her sister was dared to deliver said letter to him wearing nothing but a robe and underwear, Zabini had been dared to confess his undying love for Daphne Greengrass – who’d had to slap him multiple times to keep him away – and Hermione had had to sing the Hogwarts School Song with a drunkenly built replica of the Sorting Hat balancing on her hair.

The more the night progressed, the more daring, and more gay, the game turned. Girls were dared to kiss other girls, boys were dared to admit their wanking fantasies.

But it wasn’t until the bottle, who had been turned by Blaise Zabini, landed on Harry that everyone fell quiet in anticipation.

Because so far, Harry had not been asked yet. Ron had been dared twice, Hermione had been dared once and forced to say the truth twice now. Everyone has had their turn, even Malfoy – who was asked whether he’d ever crushed on a teacher before – but not Harry.

And judging by Zabini’s grin, it was as if all his dreams had come true.

“Harry Potter!” Zabini called, “You already know the drill. Truth, or Dare?”

Harry sighed, and said, “Truth.”

(The last thing he wanted to do was a gay dare, especially now, at the time his feelings were already all over the place. Especially with Ginny watching closely – her eyes had never left his spot the entire evening – and Dra – _Malfoy_ , grinning at him constantly.)

“All right.” Zabini cleared his throat, and asked: “You admitted during Potions the other day that you’d fantasized about sleeping with someone in your class. Who was the subject of said fantasies?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, his eyes quickly scooting toward the blonde boy sitting next to Zabini before returning. “I – Dare.”

“What?”

Harry coughed, trying to keep his voice even. “I take Dare, instead. That’s possible, right?”

Zabini blinked a couple times too many. “Yes,” he said reluctantly, “but, why? Is it that embarrassing?”

 _I am not blushing._ “Just give me a dare.”

“Oh, my,” Malfoy started laughing, pointing a finger at Harry accusingly. The Slytherin was positively drunk, but he wasn’t slurring yet. “This is interesting. Even Hermione admitted she’s thought Blaise over here,” he clasped his best friend’s shoulder, “wouldn’t be too bad in bed. Everyone here has been embarrassed _thoroughly_ tonight. So who could you _possibly_ be fantasizing about that is so _embarrassing?”_

Harry grimaced. _You really don’t want to know._ “Give. Me. The. Dare.”

Zabini put up his hands quickly. “Right, right, no need to get _testy_. I’ll give you a dare, but if you refuse to do it, you have to answer the question, all right?”

Harry nodded, thinking he’d rather shag the whole lot of them than admit who’d been on his mind lately.

“Well,” Zabini started, taking a sip from his nearly-empty glass, “Then I dare you to kiss whoever you’ve fantasized about.”

Harry opened his mouth... and closed it again. “Hey!” he protested finally, and he tried to ignore the whole group laughing around him. (Didn’t work, but he still tried.) “That’s not fair, I’m sure it’s against the rules!”

Even Ginny was laughing at his expense. “There aren’t any rules, other than that you have to go through with this dare.”

“I – just...” Harry groaned. “Fine. Just know you’re all going to hell for this. Including _you,_ Ron,” he added, almost punching his best friend laughing his ass off. “You’re supposed to be supportive!”

Ron wiped his eyes, still grinning. “This is pay-back for that Potion class, mate. Enjoy snogging the girl of your dreams.”

Something in Harry’s stomach dropped, and all his insides turned ice-cold with disappointment and fear. “Yeah,” he said softly, his eyes scooting away to look at the other side of the circle. “Thanks.”

“Harry, wait,” Hermione leaned in closer, and she whispered in his ear, her hand gripped around his arm, “just go kiss him. It’s okay.”

He jumped from her touch, as if burned. “Hermione..”

“I _know_.” She tried to smile for him, but it looked as if it cost a lot of effort.

He needn’t ask what she knew. (Even if he barely knew it, himself.)

He turned away from her, cleared his throat, and started to walk around the circle. “Just know,” he said, ignoring all the girls looking at him in anticipation, “that it isn’t anything special.”

“Isn’t it?” Zabini called, laughing, “I figured it’d be an honor to be the subject of the Golden Boy’s sex dreams!”

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Harry found himself saying, before he stopped right in front of him and his best friend. “You’re already in deep trouble enough as it is.”

The dark-skinned Slytherin suddenly cursed, realizing why Harry had stopped right in front of their couch. “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes widening comically. “Holy _shit,”_ he repeated as Harry got down on his knees in front of Malfoy. "I never... not in my wildest... Holy f–“

“Shut up, Blaise,” Harry snapped, his eyes on the blonde boy before him. Malfoy’s hands were shaking slightly, and he looked like he wanted to run for his life.

“Potter,” Malfoy began, his voice soft. The only reason he could be heard was that no one in the room was breathing, let alone dared to make a sound that could interrupt them. “What in the name of _Merlin_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

**_Draco_ **

 

Potter had been cursed.

Threatened.

Maybe his _friends_ had been threatened.

Because there could not be another explanation as to why the Savior of the wizarding world was sitting on his _knees,_ hands on either side of Draco’s legs, and his green, green, _green_ eyes focused only on Draco’s lips.

Potter needed to leave.

Potter needed to go before Draco did something _stupid_.

Before Draco would lose all self-control and kiss the infuriating boy first.

 

**_Harry_ **

 

Harry exhaled softly, watching Malfoy’s eyelashes flutter against his eyelids.

(Why were Malfoy’s eyelashes so white? He’d probably painted them that way just to spite him, Harry thought, his insides turning to jelly.)

Malfoy really needed to stop blushing, needed to stop shaking, needed to just _stop_ being so infuriatingly and undoubtedly _beautiful_ before Harry’d do something they’d all regret.

But, Harry thought, leaning forward, there really was no turning back now.

 

**_Draco_ **

 

When Harry – because of course he was _Harry_ , he had always been Harry, from his soft vanilla smelling hair to his worn-out and ugly trainers – leaned forward, his lips perched and his eyes closing slowly Draco was sure he’d died and gone to heaven.

Draco just had a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach, like when you’re swimming and you want to put your feet down on something solid but you’re deeper than you think and there’s nothing there.

That feeling was probably a side-effect of waiting for Harry Potter to finally, finally, _finally_ move and kiss him.

So Draco leaned forward and kissed him instead.

 

**_Harry_ **

 

Draco was soft.

Were all boys this soft?

Had his arch-nemesis always felt this way?

 _This_ softness, _this_ excruciatingly perfectness, hiding behind all the snarks, insults and smirks?

_I really should have kissed him first._

**_Draco_ **

 

He was the Slytherin Ice Prince, heir of the Malfoy fortune, ex-convict and sure Death Eater in everyone’s eyes.

And he was absolutely, undoubtedly and _completely_ in love with Harry Potter.


	5. Love Thy Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit swearing and homophobic things.

_**Draco** _

 

Draco was pretty familiar with the term ‘quiet’.

He also knew that silence could be deafening.

The first time he experienced such a thing was when he first told his father that he thought he had a crush on his friend Theodore Nott. There had been a silence that followed, a deafening silence, with his mother staring at him, her cup of tea fallen and shattered on the ground, and his father looking as if he’d had an heart-attack.

Draco had been seven years old at the time.

The second time such a silence happened, was when the Dark Lord first ordered him to do.. _that,_ in his Sixth Year. His mother had only stared at him, her nails scratching the wooden table, unable to even breathe. His father hadn’t even been there to say nothing.

Now, however, when Draco leaned back and saw the wide but shy grin spreading on Harry’s lips, the silence that had fallen to their little group was the loudest he had ever heard.

But, Draco thought with a smirk he couldn’t suppress, this was not a silence he minded.

And he certainly would not be the first to break it.

If Harry wasn’t still smiling at him, his breath leaving him – as if the kiss had rendered him speechless, imagine that – Draco would’ve looked around to see everyone’s baffled faces. He’d easily pay a hundred galleons for someone to take a picture of Blaise’s shocked expression, and maybe one of the Weasel’s fainted one.

Though at this moment, Draco was perfectly contend just staring at him.

 

**_Harry_ **

 

 _I just kissed a villain_ , Harry thought, his heart still beating like a maniac and a loud thumping in his ears. He couldn’t hear a thing – his friends were probably screaming, or they’d fainted. (Ron probably fainted.)

 _But he’s not a villain,_ he firmly reminded himself, staring at the pink and puffy lips of Draco, to the white strands standing out at the bottom of his hair and the grey eyes fixated on his.

He’s just a boy.

_I kissed a boy._

Harry exhaled, for the first time being able to do so, for Draco’s kiss had stolen all the air from his lungs earlier on.

 _I‘ve kissed a boy,_ he thought, his smile widening, _and I liked it._

 

**_Draco_ **

 

“Right,” A voice suddenly called, and both boys startled, suddenly reminded that there was an audience close by. “Never Have I Ever expected _this_ to happen.”

A laugh broke out, and instantly, everyone took a sip.

Harry, blushing from head to toe, grinned at Draco one last time before he stumbled away, ungracefully flopping himself back on the couch in between his friends. He just waved his hands when Hermione whispered something to him, and he immediately took a sip of his Firewhiskey.

More people laughed.

All Draco could do was stare.

Did it really happen?

Or was it just a very lifelike, and very torturous, drunk hallucination?

“Blaise,” Draco whispered under his breath, and turned to his best friend for the first time. Blaise’s skin looked almost white, as still shocked as he was, and his eyes looked too wide for Draco’s liking. “Did Harry Potter just really kiss me?”

Blaise blinked. “He did. For a very, very long time. _Merlin_.”

Seamus coughed loudly, and everyone’s head turned from either Draco or Harry to him. “Question. Does this mean, Harry, that you’ve fantasized about _Draco_ in a _sexual_ way?”

This was the fifth time Draco felt a blush creeping up his cheeks. This was preposterous, he did have a reputation to keep, contrary to popular belief.

It did help, however, that Harry was blushing so, so much more. His cheeks were probably redder than his best friend’s hair, which was saying something. “I did the dare, didn’t I?”

“But..” Dean started, very slowly. “ _Draco_? Why him?”

“Excuse me,” Draco snapped, arching his eyebrow. He was happy to hear that his voice didn’t shake like Harry’s had done. “Don’t sound too shocked, please, I _do_ like to remember you that I’m right here and can hear everything you say.”

“I wouldn’t bother doing as he says,” Blaise said with a grin, “his ego is much too big as it is anyway.”

Draco nudged him, growling – maybe he was a _bit_ tipsier than he’d thought, he’d never really growled before – and ignored people laughing at him. “Sod off.”

Blaise smirked.

“I get it.” A girl suddenly called, and everyone’s head snapped in her direction. The Weaslette was toying with her drink, and she winked at the still blushing Harry. “He’s quite handsome.”

Her brother groaned loudly, his head still buried deep in his arms. “Don’t you start, too! Did he brainwash you two?”

Draco was about to retort something, when Harry suddenly said in a soft voice, “He didn’t brainwash me, Ron.”

 _Well, then_ , Draco thought with a cold feeling in his stomach, _who did?_ The sodding Savior couldn’t possibly have meant it. Harry basically just came out to the entire school – and hadn’t run away after. He _must_ ’ve been cursed somehow.

“Then tell me,” Ron said, his voice equally low – yet loud enough to be heard all around. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

Harry glanced around, and said, “I don’t want to do this here.”

“Why not!” Ron’s voice got louder with the word, and his hands were flying around in agitation. “You were perfectly happy to kiss _the ferret_ in front of the entire school, why not have your coming-out conversation with your best mate in front of them all, too?”

“Ron, this isn’t –“

“This isn’t _what,_ exactly?” Ron’s face was red now, too, though for an entirely different reason. “Been out of the spotlight for too long so you’d thought this would do?”

“Ronald!” Finally, finally, _finally_ his girlfriend interrupted him, and she slapped him on his arm – hard enough for the slap to be heard on the other side of the room. “Leave him alone!”

“No, no,” Harry suddenly said, and his voice was calm. His smile from before had gone, and it felt as if Draco’s stomach had disappeared, too. “Please, continue.”

This voice. This was the voice Harry’d used when he was facing the Dark Lord all those months ago. This was the voice that rendered everyone speechless, that made everyone believe Harry might’ve been a dark wizard, too. It made Draco want to run, hard, and even though he was infuriated with the Weasel, he kind of felt sorry for him now, too.

Because not a lot of people would’ve stood where he was standing now, facing a furious Harry Potter with glowing green eyes.

“It’s not that.. that I’m _bigoted_ , or anything,” Ron said.

“It sort of looks that way.. mate.” Seamus said softly, but was ignored.

“Oh, no?” Harry cocked a brow. “Then what the _hell_ is your problem?”

“You can kiss around all you’d like! Merlin, Harry, I don’t care if you snog the entire male population of the wizarding world!” He pointed at Draco, his expression turning into one of disgust. “But why did it have to be him?”

Draco opened his mouth, but a hand on his arm stopped him. Blaise slowly shook his head, and mouthed; _not now._

Harry balled his fists, red sparks flying around them.

Hold up.

Draco’s eyes widened, and for the first time since the beginning of the fight he felt something of excitement.

Was Harry actually performing _wandless_ magic?

Holy mother of Merlin – and he’d been _drinking_ too.

Just how powerful _was_ Harry?

“I didn’t choose – oh, fuck it.” Harry pointed his finger at his friend angrily, his whole body shaking from withheld anger – and probably disappointment. “Fuck you, Ron. Just.. _fuck_ you.”

And without a second glance at the audience staring at him, he ran off, red sparks and all, and the dungeon doors slammed close with a loud and theatrical _bang._

“Well,” Terry Boot said after a moment of silence. “This certainly _isn’t_ a night to forget.”

And Draco, gazing at the closed doors with his insides churning, couldn’t help but agree.

 

_**Harry** _

 

Ron was a tosser.

Maybe a bit right.

Still a tosser, though.

“God _damnit!”_ Harry finally yelled out, and he slammed his fists against the wall opposite of him. He’d run all the way to the Fourth Floor, pacing like mad in front of the place where the Room of Requirement used to be. It hadn’t appeared, which was why he was taking out his anger on the wall. “God – fricking – tosser – doesn’t –“ With each word he took a swing, not caring how his knuckles were protesting, not caring how the wall got more and more painted with red. “- know – what – he’s – talking – _fuck_ –“

“Potter?” A voice suddenly called. “Are you all right?”

Harry stilled, his right fist leaning on the wall. His knuckles were burning, but the pain in his chest felt worse. “Dandy.”

“Then what on earth are you doing on a –“ Professor McGonagall suddenly gasped, one hand hovering above her heart and the other clasped in front of her mouth. “ _Potter_! What are you doing in the middle of the night fighting with walls? You should be asleep!”

“Minerva?” Another voice said, and quick footsteps. Professor Slughorn – in a fancy pair of green robes, matching those of McGonagall’s, and with white puffy sandals at his feet. “What’s all that noise? I thought I heard – oh, my!” He jumped, his eyes widening positively at the sight of Harry. “Mr. Potter! What on _earth_ are you doing?”

Something inside Harry snapped, and he started laughing. Hard.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said sternly when Harry doubled over, his bleeding hands clutched to his stomach. “This is no laughing matter.”

Harry looked up, the air wheezing out of his lungs, and he started laughing at again. This whole situation was so effed up, it was hilarious. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Professor. I’ve just had a rough night, that’s all.”

“Minerva,” Professor Slughorn carefully, his eyes fixed on Harry. “The boy is hurt.”

“I know he is, Horace,” she replied snappily. “Potter, let me look at your hands.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” he breathed in deeply one last time, waving his hands around as it to show her. “See? Doesn’t hurt.”

“We all know you’ve got a high tolerance for pain, Potter, and a whole lot of stubbornness issues.” she said, but held out her wand anyway. “Now hold out those hands.”

He sighed, at held them out.

Her face was pulled into a grimace when she saw the state of his knuckles, but just said a soft, “ _Episkey_ ,” and pocketed her wand.

“Thanks,” Harry said, rubbing his hands, and gazed at her and then Professor Slughorn awkwardly. “So..”

“ _So_ , indeed, Mr. Potter.” Professor McGonagall’s had disappeared completely and had made way for her stern self again. “Are you finally able to tell us what exactly you are doing here?”

“I was.. taking a walk.” He grimaced. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She just arched a brow. “I know that being an Eight Year is something quite special and unique, though I’d hoped you wouldn’t abuse your privileges. Students have never been granted this, to finish their education, and I can’t have you wandering the walls at three in the morning, setting a bad example for every other student just because you couldn’t sleep–“

“I know,” Harry said softly, rubbing his fringe from his face. It was clear that she didn’t know about the interhouse party, and he wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. “I’m sorry.”

Professor McGonagall’s face softened, and she looked at Professor Slughorn for a moment before leaning in towards Harry and whispering; “You know where to find me, dear boy, when you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on.” She then leaned away again, and continued with a louder voice, “Off to bed with you, then, Mr. Potter. Next time I see you out of bed it’s a hundred points from Gryffindor!”

He smiled at her, nodded his head when she winked at him. “Thank you, Professor.” He turned to Slughorn. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night,” Professor Slughorn said weakly when Harry sped off again, “my dear boy.”

When Harry had turned around the corner, he turned to the Headmistress and said; “You’d think he’d seen a ghost, by the looks of him.”

Professor McGonagall sighed deeply, before turning to Slughorn with a small smile. “Let’s hope, for all our sake’s, he hasn’t.”

 

_xxx_

 

It was nearly seven am when Harry finally found his way back to his dorm, and he jumped down on his unmade bed without even looking at his sleeping roommates.

He had just wandered restlessly around the premises for two hours before he’d finally just sat down by the lake and screamed.

He couldn’t believe that his best friend, the one who’d stuck with him all those years, would turn his back on him for being gay.

Harry didn’t even _know_ if he was gay or not. He’d kissed Cho and Ginny, didn’t he? (Although, if he was honest with himself, kissing Cho hadn’t felt that great, and even though kissing Ginny had been loads better, it still hadn’t felt the same as kissing _Malfoy_.) Maybe he was bisexual. Maybe he was Malfoy-sexual. He didn’t know.

All he did know was, that whatever he was, Ron couldn’t stand it.

He’d been disgusted by it.

Tears filled Harry’s eyes again, for the thousandth time that night, and he hit the hardest surface within reach with all his might.

“Harry?”

He instantly stilled, staring at his hand less than an inch from the wood. “Ron.”

“Mate.” Some ruffling, a grunt or two, shuffling – and then Harry’s whole bed shifted. “Mate,” Ron put his hand on Harry’s rigid shoulder carefully. “I’m sorry.”

Harry didn’t even breathe.

“Listen,” Ron continued when Harry didn’t say anything, “I’m sorry I yelled. And called you an attention-seeker.” The grip in his shoulder tightened. “I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Harry whispered, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Though you’ve got to admit, nobody had seen that coming. Dude, you should’ve seen everyone’s faces, it was _mental_.”

Harry turned around, and saw Ron smiling at him. For the first time in hours, some feeling came back in his stomach. Maybe Ron didn’t hate him, he thought. Maybe he wasn’t disgusted by his weirdness.

“I’m really sorry,” Ron blurted out again. “I just hadn’t – I mean, you and Malfoy always, you know.. I’m just sorry. You can snog anyone you like, dude, even that... I just shouldn’t have.. have told you not to snog that ferret.”

Harry cocked his brow.

“Fine,” Ron laughed, rolling his eyes, “ _Malfoy_ , then. Just don’t do it without warning in front of me, again, okay? I won’t survive a second heart-attack.”

A grin broke Harry’s face in two. “Thanks, mate.”

“It’s fine.” Ron waved it away. He looked at Harry for a while, before blurting out a quick: “I love you, you know that? No matter who you like. You could’ve told Hermione and me, we wouldn’t have judged.”

Harry just stared at his red-headed friend for a few seconds, taking in his sleep-lidded eyes (he probably hadn’t slept all night, too) and his too-short baby-blue pajamas. Ron looked ridiculous, and hopeful, and suddenly Harry couldn’t hold himself back anymore, and he _launched_.

“Merlin!” Ron gasped, but he returned the unexpected and powerful hug nevertheless. “It’s all right, mate.”

“Don’t,” Harry said, burying his head deep in Ron’s shoulder. His eyes were tearing up for the thousandth time that night, but right now he didn’t really mind. “Just shut up for a mo’, okay?”

Ron patted his back awkwardly. “Okay,” he replied softly.

 

_xxx_

 

During breakfast the following morning, there wasn’t a single soul that was eating, for various reasons.

One third of the students was still in bed. (“Weaklings,” Seamus had called them, chucking down an entire bottle of milk and swiping his mouth with his robe.) They had been either too tired or too hungover to even bother coming down.

Another third was too tired or too nauseated to eat, most of them just staring at the food, clutching their stomach with white faces.

The rest of them, however, were all too happy ignoring their plates to stare at Harry, mouths agape, whispering and pointing.

And Harry was all too happy to hex them all – if it wasn’t for Hermione, who’d confiscated his wand that morning in case he did.

“You should eat something, Harry,” Hermione said worriedly, staring at him.

“Not hungry.” He was pointedly ignoring all the stares, and looked at the Slytherin table. No sign of Malfoy yet. Where was he? Hungover? Did he remember last night? Merlin – what if he didn’t remember?

“Then at least drink some milk.”

“No, thanks.”

Maybe Malfoy had run away. Maybe he was too sick to the stomach to eat, disgusted by what Harry had done.

Hermione waved his caldron around, her voice getting desperate now. “Pumpkin Juice?”

“No.”

“Tea?”

“I’m fine, Hermione!”

A deep sigh. “No, you’re _not_.”

This made him turn his head again. She wasn’t even glancing at the Daily Prophet, something she always did during breakfast, and she hadn’t even scolded at Ron for eating like a madman. Her focus was all on Harry, and worry had wrinkled her forehead.

“I _am_.”

“You’re not.” Her eyes filled with tears.

 _Is she crying?_ Harry’s eyes widened, and he quickly looked at Ron for refuge. He, sadly, looked too flabbergasted to be of any use, too. “Hermione, what’s –“

 _“_ You didn’t tell us!” She said, very quickly, her cheeks flushing with shame. “You were walking around.. dealing with, with whatever feelings you felt, without telling us! God knows how confused you were, how hard it must’ve been.. Oh Harry, you could’ve just –“

“Hermione,” He interrupted softly, and he grasped her hand. “I didn’t know what I felt, so I couldn’t have told you. I didn’t know how badly I wanted to kiss him until I did. I couldn’t have..”

She took a deep breath. “Harry, just tell me this honestly. Were you just curious, which is okay, or are you actually in _love_ with him?”

Harry’s cheeks suddenly felt very warm. “I don’t know,’ he admitted truthfully, his eyes scooting over to the Slytherin table again. Blaise was sitting alone at breakfast, grumpily smashing one egg after the other. “I don’t know what I feel when I’m around him. Maybe he’s cursed me or something, I mean, I always thought he was a prick before, so what changed?”

Ron and Hermione shared a look. “Do you feel more on edge around him?” Hermione asked, leaning forward even more. “Like the world is suddenly so much more sharper?”

“Yes!” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That’s probably his doing.”

Another look. This time, Ron was the one to ask. “When he looks at you, does it feel like your stomach has disappeared? Like there’s this empty feeling in your tummy, a cold and warm feeling at the same time?”

“Yes!” He turned to his friends excitingly. “Is it a spell he’s done?”

“No, it isn’t, you daft idiot.” Hermione laughed. “That’s _love_!”

“Love?” He looked at the table again, fully knowing Dra- Malfoy wasn’t there. He still felt disappointed. “Are you sure? I mean, I’ve been in love before, and it hadn’t felt the same as now.”

“I do sincerely hope you’re not talking about me?” Ginny suddenly said, grinning at Harry. Apparently, the entire table had fallen silent to listen in to their conversation, and she’d heard everything they’d said. “We weren’t in love, Harry. We just loved each other, that’s all.”

“That’s the same thing!”

This time, it was Ron who laughed. “Mate, I’d hate to break to you, but it isn’t. Loving someone is like you and me. You’d lie to a teacher for me, you’d be my best mate at my wedding, and you’d toss a bucket of water over me if I woke up hungover on a Monday morning. That’s loving someone. Being _in_ love, however,” he grinned sheepishly, nudging Hermione, “is an entirely different thing. Much scarier, feels so much more nauseating and horrifying – yet it’s so much better.”

Ginny whistled. “I think that’s the wisest thing you’ve ever said, Ron.”

“She’s right,” Seamus said, blinking rapidly. “Who are you, and what have you done to Ron Weasley?”

Ron started spluttering.

Harry, however, wasn’t listening.

Because if Ron was right... if feeling like this meant he was actually, you know... in _love,_ and not just frustrated... That basically meant he’d been in love with Draco Malfoy for _years_. In love, with that stupid bigoted git who’d frustrated him all those years. In love, with the boy who had always insulted him, his friends, their families – everyone. In love with the _Slytherin_.

“Merlin,” Harry cursed, interrupting Ginny right in the middle of her sentence. “I need to see Draco.”

The quieted his friends again. “Why?” Ron said finally.

“Why?” Ginny rolled her eyes theatrically. “Because he wants to snog him again, of course.”

“Sod off, Gin,” Harry snapped, but he was smiling at her. He hadn’t smiled at her in months.

“No, you sod off,” She replied with a grin, “and take the blonde ferret with you if you can.”

“Off you pop, then,” Hermione said, and she gave Harry a little push. “Good luck.”

He smiled at all his friends. “Thank you.” He wasn’t just thanking Hermione, though. And they all knew it.

Ron waved his seventh piece of toast around. “Please just go, Harry, before Hermione starts crying again.”

And before Hermione could turn to Ron and slap him for good measure, Harry’d walked away, his eyes set on Blaise Zabini.

Walking through the Great Hall on his own had always been a challenge, with great hordes of giggling girls stopping him here and there, and the occasional offer to spend the night with someone. (Or people even giving him chocolate, surely dosed with a Love Potion.) Now, however, there were an awful lot of _guys_ winking at him, too, and Harry had no idea how to feel about it.

“Potter,” Zabini said before Harry could say anything when he’d arrived at his table, and he looked up from his breakfast. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Harry ignored that. “Where’s Draco?”

Zabini quirked a brow. “So, it’s _Draco_ now?”

“Just – tell me where he is.”

“He’s not here.”

Harry sighed deeply, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He knew the entire Slytherin table was staring at him. (Didn’t people ever get bored of staring at him? Couldn’t they ever focus on someone else’s drama for a change?) “I can see that, strangely enough.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Zabini pointed at the empty seat beside him. “He isn’t _here_ , because he’s not even at _school_.”

Of all the things he could’ve imagined as to why Draco hadn’t shown up for breakfast, this was the last. Harry took a deep breath, and sat down. “He’s not at school? Why?”

Zabini shrugged. “Not a clue. He left a note he had to go home at the manor for an emergency, that’s all.”

 _This makes zero sense._ Harry looked around, his eyes not actually seeing anything. Had Draco took a run for it? Had Harry actually scared him so much, he’d rather be back at the manor than at school facing him?

Or, Harry thought with a sickening feeling returning to his stomach, had he actually disgusted Draco so much he couldn’t stand the sight of him?

Because the blonde Slytherin had never given any indication of liking him back, had he? He’d kissed Harry first, sure, but Draco had been drunk. And under pressure. And probably a lot of shock. He couldn’t like Harry back, he just couldn’t, or he wouldn’t have run away home. (And, if Harry was totally honest with himself, why on earth would someone like Draco Malfoy like _him_?)

“Merlin,” Zabini sighed suddenly. “I can basically _feel_ you beat yourself up. How do your friends manage it? You’re even worse than Draco.”

“Huh?”

Another sigh. “Never mind.”

They sat in silence for another while. _He probably hates me,_ Harry thought, _but the least I could do is make sure Draco knows I don’t feel the same._ “He’s at his old manor, right?” Harry suddenly asked.

“Yeah,” Zabini said, breaking his toast into little pieces. “His mom first wanted to move due to, well, _stuff_ , but Draco didn’t – wait a second.” His eyes squinted to look at Harry, suspicion breaking through. “Why do _you_ want to know?”

Harry quickly held up his hands. “No reasons. I just remembered I’ve got to go, to.. uh, well.. um, enjoy your breakfast.”

“What?”

He got up, hands still in the air, as if to make sure he wasn’t about to hex them all. “Thank you, Zabini. I’ve got.. I’ve got to do something.”

“To do _what_ , exactly?” Zabini said, but his words were lost, as Harry had sped off again, this time heading towards the big doors. They slammed close behind him, and as soon as they did, whispers turned to shouts.

 

_**Draco** _

 

“Draco, dear,” his mother called from downstairs, “Could you open the door for me? I’m in the bedroom.”

Draco groaned, his head still pressed firmly against his pillow. He was in the exact same position as he had been for hours now. He hadn’t been able to face anyone in his common room after Harry had fled the room – much less was he able to look either his mother or his father (who was only on wandless house-arrest instead of Azkaban for good behavior and a good testimony given by a certain Mr. Potter) in the eye. “I am also in my bedroom, mother. Make _father_ get the door.”

It was silent for a couple of seconds, with just the sound of Draco’s ticking clock to be heard. Then, “Lucius, dear? Could you open the door for us?”

“Of all the –“ came a muffled reply, and Draco couldn’t help but smirk.

His father hadn’t been all that.. well, he hadn’t proven himself to be quite _adaptable_ a they’d hoped to living as a muggle. He wasn’t allowed to use his wand, nor wandless magic (as if his father was capable of doing so), and he could never again be in charge of any lesser being doing his bidding, such as a house elf. He’d had to live with taking care of his mother and the house all on his own, and the only thing Lucius Malfoy had learned so far was an excessive amount of unique and quite _impressive_ swear words.

At first Draco had avoided being in the same room as his father, due to various reasons he didn’t even want to start thinking about. Now, however, he’d take the company of the man who’d put him through hell to the boy who had made him feel like he was in heaven.

“Draco?” His father called. His voice sounded odd – as if he was choking. “There is a guest to see you.”

This made Draco sit right up. “A guest?” He called back.

“Come down, Draco. _Now_.”

Even after all that happened, it was nearly impossible to ignore a direct order from his father. So Draco put on his robe, muffled his hair as if to make it more presentable, and went down to the hall to see who had come to visit him at this ungodly hour at his so-called impregnable manor.

“Father?” He asked, while walking down the stairs quickly, “who on earth is –“

And he froze.

Because his absolute nightmare had come true.

“Hi,” Harry said with a smile, waving at him awkwardly. He was standing in his muggle clothes – the ugly, baggy ones that Draco so desperately wanted to rip off him – with his muddy trainers dripping on the white marble floor. Everything about him was ruffled and muddy and wet, as if he’d just taken a flight through a blizzard. And, looking at the broom Harry was holding in his left hand, this was probably the case.

“Potter,” Draco muttered, his breath leaving him. “What in the name of Merlin’s soggy pants are _you_ doing _here_?”

“To say hi.” He smiled again, and something in Draco’s chest pounded painfully.

“You’ve flown,” Draco said slowly, “from Scotland, all the way to southern England, just to say hi? Merlin, Potter, you’re _mental_.”

Harry’s smile grew wider, if that were even possible. “It’s not the first time I’m accused of being so, I’ve got to admit that. D’you mind if I come in?”

Lucius muttered, “I’d mind, to be honest,” but both boys ignored him, too preoccupied with each other.

“Yes, come in, you absolute _prick_ ,” Draco said, running down the rest of the stairs until he was standing in front of him.

“Thanks.” Harry stepped in – the mud was nearly a pool now – and closed the door behind him. “Lovely evening, this.”

Draco ignored that. “C’mon, you need to warm up. God, Potter, you really ought to take care of yourself more.”

Instead of coming with him, like he should, Harry stared at him.

“Don’t just _stand_ there,” Draco continued, and he grasped Harry’s hand to pull him along. His hand felt cold, but everything inside Draco flared hot. “You’ll catch a cold if you keep wearing those clothes, even _you_ should now that.” He turned to his father, who was gaping at him with his mouth hanging open. “Father, you can leave now.”

Lucius’ mouth snapped close, he quickly held up his hands, and left.

Harry’s eyes followed him, and didn’t say anything until the door of the living room closed behind him. “Your father,” he began slowly, “he’s not like he used to be.”

“Azkaban.” Draco just said as an explanation, pulling Harry behind him on the stairs, quickening his pace now he knew Harry wasn’t letting go. (If Harry didn’t let go, they’d be holding hands forever, because Draco surely would _not_ stop doing so first.) “I’ll have my mother make some tea to warm you up. I _think_ I have some fresh warm clothes for you –“

“Malfoy..”

“- in here,” He pointedly ignored Harry, and pulled him along into his room. “Your hand is freezing, Potter, ever heard of a warming charm?”

Harry chuckled, and Draco almost started sobbing at the beautiful sound. “I didn’t bring my wand.”

“You _what_?” His head snapped around, and he fought the urge to slap the other boy. “You ponce!”

“What?”

“Have you got any idea how much _danger_ you could’ve gotten into?” This time Draco did let go of Harry’s hand, and he ignored the disappointed look on the other boy’s face. “My father could’ve hurt you, instead of calling me downstairs. He could’ve brought you downstairs, tortured you for the fun for it, called for his old deatheater pals –“

“Malfoy..”

“- you could’ve fallen off your broom on the way here, I mean, you flew for _hours_ you absolute prick, in the _dark,_ who knows what could’ve happened?”

“Malfoy..”

“What?”

Harry’s eyes were shining as if a light had just turned on behind them, and all Draco could do was stare for a moment. When had muddy clothes and ruffled, unruly hair become beautiful? Or was it just Harry? (Harry had always been beautiful.) “Draco, just shut up for a moment, okay?”

 _He called me Draco._ Instantly, he obeyed.

“It’s true, I’ve flown for hours without a wand. Probably stupid of me, but as you’ve been saying for years, I am a reckless Gryffindor, am I not?”

Hard to argue with that logic, to be honest.

“Secondly, I had to get here as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Draco sat down on his bed, one of his hands in his hair. “What is so important that made you fly across the entire length of England to an enemy’s house? In the middle of the _night?_ What was so important, you bespectacled prick, that you needed to see me this badly?”

“Draco,” Harry said softly, staring at his entwined hands for a moment before focusing on the other boy again. “I think I’m in love with you.”

And the earth shattered around Draco in a deafening heartbeat.


	6. Battling the Dishes

**_Draco_ **

 

“Harry,” Draco breathed, his heart still beating like a maniac in his chest. “Don’t just _say_ something like that, you utter bastard! You can’t come into my house, bugger in with your mudded shoes dripping all over the carpet and expect me to believe your complete and utter _lies_ -”

“Lies?” Harry’s voice was soft. “Why on earth would I lie to you about something like that?”

Draco snorted. “Yeah - because we’ve always been the absolute _best_ of pals in the past, I should’ve instantly believed you and not expect any kind of trap at all!”

The other boy sighed, and dropped his head in his hands. It seemed like such a childish and defeated gesture, that Draco had to fight the urge to hug him. “I know we’ve never been friends. I don’t know. Maybe we are? I mean, we haven’t fought this year and -”

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco said, faking calm by rolling his eyes, “If you think _not_ cursing each other is a token of friendship, I do worry about your current friendships, and your mental health.”

Harry looked up, his eyes turning to a full glare. There was the Harry he knew and lo- uh, liked? “Oh, sod off, Malfoy. You know what I mean. You’ve always been at the center of my attention -”

If Draco hadn’t been sitting down, his knees would’ve given away.

“- ever since that first meeting on Diagon Alley -”

Was Harry trying to murder him on _purpose_?

“- and I only just today realized that it wasn’t just, you know, hate and frustration - but a crush. Well, truth be told,” Harry laughed, “I didn’t figure it out, Hermione did. Big surprise there.”

_I can’t breathe._

“But, anyway, my point is…” Harry took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, and focused his eyes on Draco’s. “It’s not a lie, Malfoy. I know you don’t feel the same, I know you don’t even like… _boys_ , that way, but it’s okay. I just needed to tell you because -”

“Shut up.”

Funnily enough, Harry didn’t listen. “No, you shut up and listen to me! I wasn’t finished -”

“Shut,” Draco repeated again, slowly standing up from his seat with his hands balled at his sides, “up.”

This time, Harry did, and his eyes widened comically behind his askew glasses.

“You - you utter and complete _prick_ ,” Draco said low and menacing, “you’re in _love_ with me? For real? And you have been for _years_? Damn it, Potter, you could’ve just said so, and could’ve ended this stupid feud years ago! And what’s that rubbish about me not liking blokes?” Draco laughed, enjoying the way Harry’s breath completely left him due to temporary shock, “are you mental?”

“But -” He spluttered, “But you’ve always said you weren’t -”

“Well, I wasn’t going to shout it about, was I?” Draco rolled his eyes. “Blaise had always had his suspicions, sure, but the only people I’ve told were my mother and father. Mind you, they weren’t the happiest people when they found out, but that is irrelevant to my point. You still are one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever met, and you probably always will be.”

“Hey,” Harry called out, some spirit back in him, “You’re quite the oblivious ponce too, aren’t you? You hadn’t noticed I liked blokes, too.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know it before you kissed me.” Then something just called out a Lumos in Draco’s mind, and this time he _had_ to sit down. “ _Our_ kiss didn’t make you gay, did it?”

A beautiful blush crept up Harry’s cheeks. “Sort of.”

For the first time in Draco’s life, he felt the urge to cry tears of joy. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “And what about you? Had you ever done.. _that.._ before?”

“Yes.” Draco answered truthfully - because he _had_ kissed Theodore once on a stupid bet when he was seven. But then… “No.”

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “Yes or no?”

“Not like that.”

“Not with a boy?”

Draco’s eyes fell down, as did his heart. “Not when I really wanted it.”

 

**_Harry_ **

 

Draco was really, really pretty when he was smiling.

And Harry was also really, really gay.

And somehow, that thought wasn’t nearly as disturbing and nauseating as he’d initially thought. He certainly didn’t feel like drowning himself (something which Vernon would always wish upon the queer people he saw on the street), and he didn’t feel like running away, either.

Though the genuine and wide smile Draco was giving him every few seconds, alongside that embarrassed blush on his white cheeks, certainly helped loads.

“So,” Draco said after a while of silence, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

Harry lifted one eyebrow, and started laughing. “If you insist.”

He hadn’t even lifted the hem of his shirt when Draco jumped up, spluttering like a maniac. “ _No!_ Not like – that’s _not_ – don’t.” His entire face and neck were red at this point. “I meant that you should put on some dry ones! Not – uh…”

Harry smirked, letting go of his shirt. “Pity.”

Some of Draco’s color _pitifully_ disappeared, and he snorted. “I feel like I’ve asked you this already, but when did you get so cocky?”

“Murdering the madman who’s hunted me ever since I was born definitely helped,” Harry said casually, jumped up, and strutted to one of the black closets. “Is this one for your clothes?”

If Draco was fazed by his casual mention of Voldemort, he didn’t show it. “Yes, it is.”

Harry pointed to the other closet. “And that one?”

“Also my clothes –“

“And that one?”

A sigh. “That’s also a wardrobe, yes.”

Harry whistled. “If I’d known that, I would’ve known you were gay long before now.”

“Just because _you_ like to dress in absolute and disgusting rags,” Draco pointed to Harry’s muddy and baggy clothing with a grimace, “doesn’t mean _every_ hetero guy does.”

“You’re not hetero.”

“Quite the opposite, in fact, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

Harry gestured wildly, almost smacking off his own glasses in his enthusiasm. “You’re gay. You dress nice. Case closed.”

“Case open,” Draco said with a small smile, opening the smallest closet, which apparently contained about fifty green pajamas and black robes. “ _You_ ’re gay. You don’t dress nice.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, and smiled when he saw that every single set in Draco’s closet was identical. “Merlin, you’re _such_ a cartoon character.”

“A what?”

“It’s a muggle thing.” He ignored Draco’s theatrical sigh. “It’s when all the characters always wear the exact same thing, and when you open their closet –“

“Very funny,” Draco snapped, before grabbing a green pair of pyjamas hastily to throw it in Harry’s hands. “Now change, you ponce, before you catch a cold.”

Harry smiled brightly at him, and for a second it looked like Draco had frozen on the spot. “Nice to know you care.”

Harry turned around to find a bathroom to change in, and walked away too fast to hear Draco’s soft whisper; “Merlin knows I always did.”

Fifteen minutes later, and they were both sitting with crossed legs on Draco’s bed, staring at the other while awkwardly trying to deny the fact that, well, they were supposed to sleep. On one bed. Together. After they’d just sort of confessed they were gay. (And in love, on Harry’s part.)

“So,”  Draco muttered, “I can’t really put you in the guest room, since… well, the Ministry has closed down almost every single guest room there is in case there’s any… you know, evidence, left. So you either sleep here, or with my parents.”

Harry snorted. “I’d rather sleep with you than with Lucius, thanks very much.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, before snorting loudly. “I’d rather hope so, seeing as that’d be quite the headline if someone found out.”

“Shove it,”  Harry smiled, shoving Draco backwards playfully.

“ _You_ shove it,”  Draco retorted, pushing back.

Instead of falling backwards, however, Harry just grabbed Draco’s hands tightly instead, holding them close to his chest.

“Harry…” Draco said, softly, his jokingly pretense suddenly gone. “What are we doing?”

And honestly… he had no idea. He had flown all throughout England – and he knew it had been a bad idea, not that he was going to admit that to Draco any time soon – in the sodding rain, without leaving a note or anything for his friends. His wand was still on his nightstand, and he knew that people were going to talk like crazy the second he’d get back to Hogwarts, the second they’d found out he’d gone through all that trouble just to see Draco.

Draco _Malfoy._

All Harry did know, however, was that he hadn’t felt this happy and content in months, holding Draco’s hand, watching the cold and rigid ice prince turn redder and redder with every breath he took.

“I don’t know,” Harry said at last, tracing Draco’s fingers with his thumb. “I just – I just needed –“

“Yeah.” Draco took a deep breath. “Me too.”

Harry grinned at him, and without a break, Draco smiled at him, too.

 

**_Draco_ **

 

At last they decided that Draco was going to sleep on the couch, and Harry on the bed. (At first Harry had, quite persistently and stubbornly, refused to take Draco’s bed. It wasn’t until after Draco had shown him how comfortable his couch was that he’d relented.)

They hadn’t even been lying down for more than half an hour when a soft snoring indicated that the savior had fallen asleep.

Almost immediately Draco turned around, to his side, to be able to stare at the open and quite vulnerable face of Harry.

His mouth was hanging open slightly, and the fringe that Draco so badly wanted to touch was hanging between his eyes, not quite covering his lightning bolt scar. The boy was clutching Draco’s sheets, the rest of it tangled between his legs.

Why did Harry make him so happy?

Why did staring at Harry’s sleeping state made his chest feel so heavy and content?

Last he checked, he wasn’t a Hufflepuff.

_I think I’m in love with you._

Draco pulled a face, resisting the urge to slap himself over the head to get Harry’s voice out of his head. This was ridiculous! They were supposed to be _enemies_ , arch-enemies in fact, not hold hands and grin like bloody _toddlers_ in love!

All he needed to do, Draco thought with a shuddering breath, was make a list of all the things he hated about Harry. Every single thing that had bothered him through the years.

Draco exhaled again, feeling his heartbeat slow down.

Yes. He should do that.

(It was a lot simpler to think about that, anyway, rather than why he so badly wanted to wrap his arms around Harry and _never_ let go again.)

Number 1: Harry’s awkward tan lines from Quidditch. That had always bothered Draco, that slightly-more-brown than crème tan line on Harry’s neck, the uneven patch of color almost tempting everyone to rip off Harry’s shirt to check if his chest was the same infuriatingly bronze color.

2\. His knuckles. Draco’s gaze left Harry’s face to watch his knuckles, and he instantly grimaced. The knobbly knuckles of Harry, a clear sign he’d used his hands so much, the rough callouses on his fingers from gripping his Firebolt too tight.

3\. The way you could see sweat trickle down the back of his neck when it got too hot. (He could see it now, actually. Disgusting. Draco should just get up and lick it – uh. Never mind.)

  
4.His tie. He wasn’t wearing it now – fortunately – but on every other day it infuriated Draco to no end. For some reason it was always askew – and always a bit to the left, as if Harry was always in a too great hurry to pay attention to his tie. (He probably was, the git.)

5\. His clothes.  _Merlin_ , his clothes. They were either always too big for him, with the sleeves falling over his thin hands, or too dirty and worn-out, with scuff marks on his shoes that he always fiddles with but didn’t ever bother to  _Reparo_ . (Of course he doesn’t. He’s Harry Potter, he quite clearly doesn’t even know the way the spell’s cast.)

6\. His smell. Draco could smell it even know, from this distance. It was the minty and fresh smell of either his cologne or his shampoo – though Draco suspected Harry never washed his hair. The smell was distracting. He’d never been able to concentrate while Harry was in the same room. (The ponce.)

7\. His glasses. There was just something so  _Potter_ about them, that it made something deep within Draco’s gut twist violently every time he saw them. And then the annoying  _lick_ Harry’d always do when he would push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was this unconscious, infuriating lick of his lips, and Draco was convinced Harry was doing it on purpose to annoy him.

8\. His hands. Yes, his knuckles were already annoying and distracting as anything, but his long and thin fingers, like everything else about Harry’s body, always tainted from ink – Harry was quite possibly the sloppiest writer in all of wizarding history – or another disgusting substance. (And every time he’d readjust his glasses, he’d smear it all over his face, too.)

9\. Treacle Tart. It was Harry’s favorite dish, and every single wizard and witch in Hogwarts knew it. You could even hear Harry’s groans and above all  _moans_ all the way in the Slytherin dungeon whenever he was devouring it. And dinner,  _every single night_ , was tainted by Harry’s quite appalling eating manners. There was something disturbingly addictive in watching him eat his treacle tart, him looking at the treat as if it was his long lost love, licking his fork for longer than humanly possible as if to savor every single last taste. (Pansy had stabbed Draco with a fork once to stop him from staring with an open mouth. He couldn’t help that Harry had been so  _obscene_ , moaning with an open mouth and his neck thrown back.)

10\. The way he drums his wand against his leg subconsciously when he’s talking or just listening in class. (Draco had to keep an eye on him all the time because of that – what if he’d accidentally set it off and blasted them all to bits?)

11\. His magic. Draco tore his eye away from the sleeping boy – with more difficulty than he’d dare admit – and glanced around the room. Even now, when Harry was sleeping, the air around him seemed to be buzzing. The power the Savior of the Wizarding world wielded was infuriatingly great, and Draco wanted so badly to smother him with a pillow for it. Harry was so powerful, and he had no idea. (And, well, that’s just frustrating.)

12\. His laugh. It was too loud, too sudden. It distracted Draco from, well,  _anything_ , and made his stomach feel all Hufflepuff-y.

13\. His –

A loud and low moan suddenly disrupted Draco’s thoughts, and he stilled. Harry’s mouth was hanging wide open now, leaving nothing about the inside to anyone’s imagination. (Not that Draco had thought about the inside of Harry’s mouth. Surely not.)

Draco stared for a few more seconds, to make sure Harry wasn’t awake, and then turned his back to the other boy.

_This is ridiculous_ , he told himself for the millionth time, closing his eyes as if to shield himself for it all. It wasn’t as if he’d never slept with another boy near him. Another _gay_ boy, in fact. Harry wasn’t going to molest him in his sleep – and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t do the same to Harry, too.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel on edge all night long, watching the room around him turn more and more light while listening to the comforting and low breaths of Harry, falling asleep just as the clock struck five.

 

**_Harry_ **

 

When Harry woke up the next morning he had a few moments of difficulty remembering why he was staring at a ceiling painted with silver peacocks.

Then he heard a soft groan of someone clearly dreaming deeply, and he couldn’t suppress a smile before turning on his side to watch Draco sleep.

He didn’t look much like a rigid Slytherin prince now, Harry mused, with his silver hair disheveled, his mouth open and his breath sounding oddly like a snore.

_What are we doing,_ Draco had asked him last night.

He still didn’t know. Part of him wondered if he ever would. One thing he did know, however, was that he had never been this happy to watch someone sleep before, and that he desperately _needed_ to kiss Draco on his forehead.

Harry, never one to be able to restrain himself, got up without making a sound to do just that, smiling when Draco just mumbled incoherently in his sleep.

His skin tasted like lemons and something sweet. (Not fair. Why did everything about Draco have to be perfect?)

Draco looked far too peaceful to be rudely awakened, so Harry grabbed one of Draco’s black robes before strutting away awkwardly.

Sure, he could’ve waited in Draco’s bedroom until the other boy was awake, but he had never been patient. That, and his stomach was growling like crazy.

The moment he closed the door behind him and looked around, however, he regretted it. Everything about the corridor was dark and gloomy, with dim-lit candles casting ominous shadows across the hall. Every door except Draco’s seemed to be locked down with heavy shackles – Draco hadn’t exaggerated the Ministries’ interference with their home. Last night it all had seemed more welcome than this. (Though Harry hadn’t really been attention to his surroundings then.)

He took a deep breath, and started walking to his right. He had no idea where he was going, but he must run into someone at some point, right? How big could this manor be?

After half an hour of strutting around, running stairs up and down, getting blocked by a door or an appearing wall – it had come out of nowhere, nearly knocking Harry off his feet – Harry came to one simple conclusion: _very, very big._ Who could ever be in need of such a big house?

“Hello?” He finally called, having arrived at the gallery of fair-haired family portraits. Again. For the fifth time now. “Anyone up?”

Nobody answered, except one of the painted Malfoy’s staring at him accusingly. Every single man painted in the pictures had white hair. For a second or two Harry wondered if the rumors about the Malfoys being Veelas were true, when a loud _clang_ caught his attention.

He started running, desperate to get out of the maze that was the Malfoy manor, when he stopped abruptly in front of an open door.

Inside, he could see Lucius Malfoy raging a war on dirty dishes, foam flying everywhere, his hair in a braid and a bright pink apron strapped to his chest.

For a second Harry wanted to laugh, but he swallowed his shock and said, gingerly, “Good morning.”

“What on earth –“ Lucius turned around, splashing water everywhere in his wake. His annoyed expression turned dark. “Potter. What do you want?”

_Slap you._

_Kick you in the nuts._

_Jinx your hair off._

_Better yet, slap you, kick you in the nuts and_ then _jinx your hair off._

“I want to put you in prison, to be honest,” Harry said after a while, not caring in the slightest that Lucius balled his fists at his side. “I don’t care about your probation. You’re the one who dragged your family down the pit that was Voldemort –“ he ignored Lucius flinching at the name “- and you’re the one who almost got Draco killed. There’s very little holding me back now to hex you to bits for that alone.”

Lucius sneered. “Do it then, you little brat, if you so desperately want to. I’ve got no wand, as even a half-blood like yourself can see. What’s holding you back?” When Harry just stared at him, he snorted. “Don’t tell me it’s your _Gryffindor,_ chivalrous heart. Afraid to hurt an unarmed man? I suppose it’s not in your character…”

“Oh, it is. With you, however, I have no such restraint. You _did_ nearly get Ginny killed, and every other muggle-born in my school during my second year. You tortured muggles for fun, and you laughed alongside every other Death Eater when Voldemort tortured me on that graveyard. You are no innocent man, Lucius.”

Draco’s father groaned distastefully, and he waved around. “Look around you, you blind fool! I’m paying for every single of those deeds!”

“By doing the dishes?” Harry snorted. “So very good of you. I expect you to be pardoned by every single person you’ve hurt any day now.”

“Don’t talk to me about redemption, Potter.” Lucius turned away from him, abruptly throwing plates into the sink, not caring foam flew even higher. “You’ve inflicted your fair share. After all, if you had come to Voldemort sooner, not everyone would’ve been –“

“Shut up, before I really do hex you.” Harry threatened, before taking a deep sigh and running his hands through his hair. “Listen. You dislike me, I dislike you.”

Lucius laughed without humor. “Stating the obvious now, are we?”

Harry ignored that. “But I know Draco still loves you, deep down.” Lucius had stopped smashing plates and silverware, and taking this as a good sign Harry stepped forward. “And if I am to woo your son, I don’t think fighting you is the best way to do it.”

“ _Woo_ my son?” Lucius turned around, an incredulous expression on his face, his mouth twitching as if Harry had just told him a joke, until he caught the boy’s expression. “Oh.” His face fell. “Right.”

“Right, indeed.” Harry picked up one of the plates Lucius hadn’t smashed to pieces yet, grabbed a sponge, and started cleaning it without further ado. “I _really_ like Draco. And my hatred for you… I just can’t let that get in the way.”

Lucius was staring at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, and Harry plundered on with his rant, cleaning one plate after the other. “Draco will forgive you in time, if you let him see you are sorry, and I refuse to be the reason he won’t. If you keep on hating me, and I keep on hating you, he’d be torn between two sides… I mean, if he does like me back, like I suspect he does.” A blush crept up Harry’s cheeks, which he pointedly ignored. “He needs to be happy, and he isn’t without his dad.” He gave the cleaned plates to Lucius, who took them by instinct. “You need to show him remorse, even if you don’t feel it. Draco is your son, Lucius, your only one, and I want him to be happy. So if you can be civil, I can be too. For Draco’s sake.”

Lucius placed the plates on the kitchen gingerly, before turning to look at Harry again. “You want me to tell my son, to lie to him as you very well know, that I _regret_ my decision? That I should have never joined the Dark Lord?”

“Yes.” Harry took a deep breath, ignored his gut twisting like crazy that this was all wrong, and put out his hand.

Lucius looked at his hand as if it were cursed. “You want me to shake your hand on it? _Your_ hand?”

“Yes. _My_ hand.” Harry cocked an eyebrow. “It’s not infected.”

“Of course it’s not, you just cleaned the plates with soap.” Lucius scowled. “But you can’t deny that you’re the _Potter boy_ , Potter. A _boy_. And you wish to…”

“Make a truce to be able to date your son without him being unhappy, yes.”

Lucius swallowed, looked around as if to check they were really alone, before taking Harry’s hand into his own and shaking it so quickly it was as if Harry had imagined it.

But he hadn’t.

And he couldn’t help but smile. “Now, then, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said formerly, gesturing to the pans and silverware, “let’s clean the rest of this shit before your family wakes up.”

 

**_Draco_ **

 

Draco had been pondering all night whether he really liked Harry Potter, too – or if they’d all just been cursed by someone as a horrid joke – racking his mind to remember every horrible fight they ever had, making it clear to himself that Harry could never truly like him, nor forgive him for everything he’d done.

But when he walked into his kitchen, every thought of reason evaporated.

For his father, ex-convict Death Eater and sure murdered, was wearing identical aprons with the Savior he had so desperately tried to kill. Harry and his father were both covered in foam, bickering without calling ugly names, working together to clean the dishes that hadn’t been cleaned in over a week. (Mother had simply refused to do such a muggle-related task, and as father had not been permitted to use a wand nor wandless magic yet, he had postponed cleaning them by hand as long as possible.)

For a minute Draco considered making a run for it to St. Mungo’s to admit himself for going crazy and seeing hallucinations.

Instead, he started laughing.

Harry instantly turned around at the sound of his laugh, his face breaking in two when he smiled. “Good morning, Draco.”

“You’re doing the dishes,” Draco just said, still laughing. He hadn’t laughed this hard in ages, and certainly not with his father in the same room. “You’re doing the dishes with my _father._ And you’re wearing my _mother’s_ apron _.”_

Harry’s eyebrows knitted together. “To be fair, it’s more of a _battle_ with the amounts of foam. I haven’t seen this much foam ever since my aunt –“

The rest of Harry’s sentence was cut off when Draco leaped forward without warning, hugging the other boy tightly.

“Oh,” Harry said in surprise, but instantly hugged him back.

There was a light flutter in Draco’s chest, and he held on even tighter. Harry probably had no idea how happy he was, how shocking this was, how much it meant to him.

Because Harry was being civil to his father, while they were supposed to hate each other. He was being civil to the man who had so desperately tried to kill him and every single friend of his. He was being so selfless, so good, so anti-Draco and so, so very much _Harry_ , and he was so in love.

(And if his father and Harry could get along without getting shipped off to the Auror’s office, who said _they_ couldn’t, too?)

Draco leaned back, and ignored his father scratching his throat for his attention. All he could see were Harry’s green eyes staring up at him. “I don’t know what we’re doing,” he whispered finally, his heart fluttering in his chest with excitement and nervousness, “but I don’t want to stop it.”

Harry’s arm dropped to his sides, where he hold on tightly. A Slytherin-worthy smirk treated up Harry’s lips. “Let’s do this properly, then. Draco Malfoy, will you pretty please make me very insanely happy, and be my boyfriend?”

Draco laughed. Never on earth had he expected this to happen. (Certainly not with his father throwing foam at them to get them to stop being so very _gay_ in his presence.) “Of course I would.” Harry’s beaming smile was infectious, and so Draco quickly added to stop Harry from turning him into a giggling Hufflepuff, “If just to see the Weasel’s  expression when you tell him.”

Instead of turning mad or calling him a prick – as Harry would have normally done – he started laughing. It was a surprised, chirpy laugh, that did funny things to Draco’s tummy. “I’ll take it.”

And Draco could do nothing else but kiss him feverishly.

(That was, until Lucius decided enough was enough and doused the two boys with a bucket of dirty dish-water, foam, and an alarmingly unique range of swearwords.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys.  
> This was intentionally the ending of the fic.  
> ((That is, unless you want me to post an epilogue...))
> 
> I thoroughly enjoyed writing it, and I want to thank Stella for always beta-ing and helping me out!  
> Another special thanks to my friend Lenoor for always reading gay wizard stories even if she doesn't ship them - really, I appreciate it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is highly appreciated.


End file.
